


A Dragon's Flight

by Madrigal_in_training



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Arranged Marriage, Dragons, Drama, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Politics, R plus L equals J, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 10:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11159655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madrigal_in_training/pseuds/Madrigal_in_training
Summary: An unexpected hatching forces Lyarra Snow to flee Winterfell before her bonded dragon can be put to the sword. Guided by uncanny dreams, her own wits, and letters that could plunge the realm into war, Lyarra must reignite the flames of her House for a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. Dragonrider elements heavily borrowed from Eragon. fem!Jon, Lyarra x Aegon





	1. Chapter 1

The moonlight coated the blade in silver as the thirteen-year-old slashed it through the crisp night air. Lyarra Snow was clumsily replicating the stances she had Ser Rodrick, Winterfell's Master-at-Arms, teach her half-brother this morning. She was forced to do this under the cover of darkness for despite her natural inclinations towards swordsmanship and desire to emulate her possible uncle, Ser Arthur Dayne, Lyarra bore the dual disadvantages of being a bastard and a woman.

‘The servants will begin work soon,’ she remarked, observing the hints of pale cobalt lightening the sky. The rooster would crow when the Hour of the Wolf ended. ‘I can try one more set.’

The cautious Snow child typically moved slowly when attempting a new technique but her limited time made her reckless. Lyarra had been impressed by this simple drill: a simple sweep upward, followed by drawing it back sharply and a horizontal slash to the chest, extending the shield arm to recover the lapsed defense. The first part of the move went correctly enough.

‘Take that Ironborn raiders! Wildings and pirates- Oh!’ Her blade was angled too low, the weight of the blunted steel digging her tired arm down, and moving too quickly to pull back. The girl’s left hand was still extended to pantomime a shield but it meant nothing when the steel cut through the woven wool. 

A pained gasp escaped bow-shaped lips. Lyarra inadvertently dropped her sword as she cradled the injured arm to her chest, tears welling at the edges. It hurt! It hurt more than anything she had ever experienced before- even the time she had fought with her brother and been pushed to the ground. 

‘Oh Gods, I’m bleeding!’ Eyes, of a shade of violet so pale that it was truly lavender and easily mistaken grey, widened in shock. The blunted sword had slid through her clothing and left a long, shallow cut on her arm, where rubies of blood were trickling down now. It had likely not helped that she had worn such thin furs but Lyarra’s body ran strangely hot, even in the winter. 

‘The Trident shined as red as the rubies on his breastplate…’ Lyarra watched the rivulets form with silent and morbid fascination. The pain receded in her mind, fastened as it was to the tendrils of blood and of accounts of war present in the Winterfell library. She was abruptly pulled out by a shrill crow.

‘They are woken! I need to hide the evidence! I must wash the blood first.’ Still cradling the injured arm to her chest, she snatched the blade from the ground and tossed it into the bushes. Lyarra trained by the weirwoods, undaunted by beasts within its ancient trees, and this would helpfully shadow her from early risers. ‘Where can I find clean water? The pools?’

Raised to honor the Old Gods, she instinctively cringed from the thought of polluting such waters.

‘The well should have a ladle… No, the servants must fetch water for breakfast!’ Lyarra bit her lip and darted towards the weaker, crumbling walls of the ancient castle. Pulling down her sleeves and wrapping her arm in excess fabric, the dark-haired girl crawled through a hole where stone had crumbled to time and been unrepaired since. She was careful to keep the dirt from touching her wounds. ‘The old well is near the First Keep, is it not?’

It was harder to use then the current one and thus, hopefully vacant at the moment. Sticking closely to the shadows of the wall, Lyarra all but ran to the location. She could have cried when she saw it, rotted planks and frayed rope and all. A few stubborn turns of the ancient wheel drew the bucket up, a sorry amount of clear, blessed water in its depths.

It ran pink over her bloodied arm but the coolness added another blunting force to the sting and allowed her to wrap it up more tightly. Her clothing was still stained red but there would be little risk of infection should she nick a poultice and wrap from the Maester’s workshop.

‘He’d be less than pleased if I asked for rose petal cream rather than bruise ointment.’ Lyarra knew the wily Maester suspected her activities for even Jeyne Poole was not so clumsy as to trip on as many stairs as she did. ‘Hopefully I do not scar. My marriage prospects are poor enough as a bastard.’

The dark-haired girl regarded her arm with satisfaction and then looked around herself curiously. This wasn’t an area of Winterfell that she ventured to often, preferring the library to all else. The crypts lied here and Lyarra tended to avoid them. Mostly to prevent a harsh rebuke from Lady Catelyn for venturing into areas for ‘true’ Starks.

‘That would be Arya then.’ The others looked Andal in appearance and while Lyarra had the Stark colouring, her own features were more delicate and refined. Valyrian, people whispered. Beauty befitting the daughter of Ashara Dayne, more lovely than Arya, the sister she most resembled.

The smallfolk whispered for the only person the words enraged more than Lady Catelyn was her husband. Lord Ned Stark refused any connection between his bastard daughter and Old Valyria, perhaps due to the fate of her late Aunt Lyanna. 

‘Still if I am to be rebellious today, then I should be in all manner of ways.’ A mischievous smirk that vastly increased her resemblance to one Arya Underfoot crossed her face and Lyarra walked over to the ironwood door. There were lit braziers on the top levels and unused torches nearby to her convenience, and she took two to be on the safe side. Then she ventured down.

Round and round the spiralling staircase went, the narrow walls and confining stone more discomforting than she had expected it to be. Lyarra loved open skies and empty fields, adored pushing her steeds to such speed that it felt like she was flying and this unnerved her.

‘The scent of death is musty and still,’ Lyarra thought. The halls of the corpses were silent with unspoken expectations, unheard of burdens, and each setting where the staircase levelled repelled her. She continued her tread downwards, peeking occasionally to faces that were long and stern, much like her father but lacking Ned Stark’s life warmth and good humor. ‘How many stories had these crumbled bones taken to their graves?’

If Lyarra and Arya shared their love of mischief and adventure, than Lyarra and Bran shared a love of stories. Sansa too adored them but hers were tales of Southron knights and courtly valor whereas they desired to know the truth, however grisly it may have been.

Eventually even these stairs had to end and Lyarra’s feet touched the ocher soil of the hidden caverns. The upper levels had been turned into the crypts but they said a man could venture these tunnels for days on end without crossing the same chamber twice. The flames of her torch cast eerie shadows on the wall as she contemplated moving ahead.

‘Five corridors. One for each sibling and marked by a burn on the wall.’ Lyarra named the first ‘Sansa’ for it would be the closest towards daylight. She walked north, one hand to rough stone to guide her and came to a fork on the road. ‘Right for which Rickon insists that he will always be.’

She branched right again when reached another break and mentally attributed this to Robb, for it was the wider corridor and he was broad of shoulders. The fourth decision laid three paths before her and she picked the middle road: Bran, the peacemaker and diplomat of the Starks.

This corridor was long and winding but it eventually came to a sharp split in two. The one to the right matched each of the other paths in size whereas the left was the width of three men’s chests and seemed to grow ever narrower. Despite her fear of enclosed spaces and sudden concerns of being entombed inside, an instinct compelled her to choose the left. 

‘In the name of Arya Underfoot, the Ever Fearless and Valiant, I venture forward for glory and honor.’

Her lips quirked upwards and she stifled a laugh- the brief expulsion of sound absorbed by the walls- as she took the final path. It grew narrow and narrow and narrow, and then suddenly she was in a near circular dead end. Even her lithe body had to squeeze past the rock to slip through, holding the torch aloft to protect herself.

Lyarra looked around it quickly. There wasn’t much to see. The area was the size of her own room, half again the size of her trueborn siblings and empty. Then something glittered in the light.

‘Have I found hidden treasure after all?’ It may have been the mystery of it all that led Lyarra to step closer. She held the torch over the object and found it to be three oval-shaped stones, near a third the length of her own arm, and of a hand’s width (Robb’s hand not her own relatively tiny one). They glimmered dusky violet, pale gold, and ruby red under torchlight.

‘How pretty…’ The first torch was dwindling down at this point, so she quickly swapped it for the other one brought along. Stuck in the deepest levels of the crypt without light did not appeal to her.

Lyarra decided to bring the stones along with her. Their beauty would be wasted under cold stone and her own room lacked much decoration with her pittance of an allowance. She took off her cloak and used it to bundle up the rocks, attributing their heat to her own body’s unusual warmth. 

‘This was a fun adventure after all!’ Arya, Bran, Robb, Rickon, Sansa, and then she was walking up the stairs. It was a faster trip upwards then down, curiosity smothered by recent pangs of her stomach demanding sustenance. She managed to sneak back to her room unnoticed- more or less, the maid looked at her scratched and dirty form oddly- dress herself, and come down to breakfast. The stones she hid underneath her bed, not yet sure where in the room to place them.

Lyarra had meant to share her discovery with her siblings during breakfast but the impulse escaped her for a meal. Any further compulsion over the days to reveal the stones was redirected by sudden distractions and inescapable wandering nothings. Lyarra could not place the reason why but she had no desire to show the pretty stones or place them in a public area. She would occasionally caress them with a finger though, feeling strangely comforted by their proximity, especially the violet one.

Her days continued as they always had. She would jape with Robb, explore with Arya, read with Bran, play with Rickon, and sneak out at night to practice her swings. Theon would mock her, Sansa would avoid her, Lady Catelyn would look at her like she was a gutter beggar come to her home. Her Father would be loving but distant and she wouldn’t feel insulted for he was that way with her siblings too.

The main difference was that she slept with the dusky violet stone cradled in her arms. 

Lyarra’s simple life came to a crashing halt one morning when she snuck back from her training to find the stone moved from her pillow. Inexplicably, panic rose in her breast until she swiped her blanket off the bed to discover it at the center. She reached out to grab it and then her hand wavered when it rolled again. And again.

‘My stone!’ Lyarra lunged forward and grabbed it before it fell straight off the bed. She nearly dropped it for how hot it had become, through from shock rather than pain. It seemed to vibrate in her hand and her startlement and fear rose accordingly. ‘It seeks the flames.’

The words were whispered near-silent to her mind and Lyarra followed them accordingly. She rushed to the hearth within her room, unlit for how little her body needs external warmth, and feverishly sparks a flame there. She blows on it gently and feeds it dried saplings to grow it further. Her last action is to roll the stone in, despite her own perturbation for the loss. 

The stone cracks and she nearly snatches it back out. The sound is sharp in the morning quiet and followed by another one, smaller and across the center. It continues to break apart until a terrified realization comes to the bastard girl.

‘It’s not breaking… it’s hatching.’

One shard is pushed out further than the rest and she glimpses a snout. Then a tiny foreleg and the curl of another? There is a tail now, pushing out and cracking the stone even further. No, this isn’t a stone, it’s an egg and some manner of wondrous beast is now being born.

The newborn eventually crawls out of the hearth and looks up at her. The size of a small puppy, ungainly on its slick limbs, two protruding wings of thin, wet membranes and a line of ridges marching down its back. The color of the body is a dark blue, almost indigo around the ridges and membranes, and a pale lavender to the silken wingflesh. There’s a blaze of gold within the eyes, amber set within dark eyelids and they are fastened on her.

Lyarra is smitten. And horrified. 

‘I’ve hatched a dragon.’

x


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected hatching forces Lyarra Snow to flee Winterfell before her bonded dragon can be put to the sword. Guided by uncanny dreams, her own wits, and letters that could plunge the realm into war, Lyarra must reignite the flames of her House for a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. Dragonrider elements heavily borrowed from Eragon. fem!Jon

The dragon hopped closer.

Lyarra slid back on the stone floor.

The dragon hopped closer.

Lyarra slid back on the stone floor.

The dragon hopped closer.

Lyarra slid back- wait, she was against the wall now. Damn Lady Catelyn for her small room!

The dragon made a quiet chuffing noise, almost like it was holding back a sneeze, and peered up at her pleadingly. She was suddenly reminded that this mythical beast of flame and claw was now double the size of a newborn kitten and probably not much more dangerous. Even the teeth that she could glimpse from it opening and closing its mouth experimentally were tiny and downright endearing.

Lyarra tentatively raised a hand. The dragon made an excited birdlike chirping noise and hopped even closer to her. It's snout tickled the skin of her palm and then someone took a hammer to her skull.

‘By all the bloody Gods!’ The dark-haired girl threw some quite unladylike words out into the air and pressed her hand to her forehead. The throbbing of an exquisitely painful headache reminded her of the first (and last) time she grew drunk on Arbor Gold. There was an immense pressure in her mind, as though there was too much for her skull to contain. ‘Did the dragon do this to me?’

Peripherally, she was aware of the beast pushing insistently on her thigh, trying unsuccessfully to clamber up to her lap. She tried to move away but it released a sorrowful wail. 

“What have you done to me?” Lyarra gasped out. Her hand was still pressed to her forehead but she could unexpectedly hear a high, boyish voice response. Done to me. Done to me.

Her head jerked up to look around the room. It was empty of all but her and the dragon. Where had the voice come from? “Who’s there? Why is my head hurting like this?”

There. Why. Head. Like. The pressure in her head spiked briefly and she closed her eyes. Behind the darkness she saw images and words flicker by faster than she could recognize them. Mama?

The dragon’s tiny claws were still tugging on her clothing. Lyarra stomach tightened in anxiety and astonishment. “You… you were the one to speak?”

In response, eyes of amber gold looked at her joyfully. Mama!

“No! No, no, no.” Ignoring the dragon’s recoil, she pushed forward. “I am not your mother.”

The pressure in her head increased again and there was another shuffle of inexplicable images. Mine.

“Not yours,” Lyarra refuted quickly. The dragon headbutted her in displeasure. It felt barely a tap on her knee. Mine. Mine. Mine!

There was a pause and then a tentative lick on her fingers. The tongue was rough yet gentle. Yours.

Lyarra gulped. There was a feeling blooming in her chest, a warmth that felt alien and familiar all at once, and a dizzying comprehension of her surroundings. She was strong (fragile), rested (tired), terrified (exhilarant) and hungry. Her stomach felt empty but the pangs felt like an echo. 

“These are your thoughts. These are your feelings,” Lyarra voiced numbly. An unexpected flush of excitement from the foreign presence in her mind. Mine.

A shuffle of her thoughts occurred a third time, less painful now that she had experienced it twice so far. Hungry?

“You want me to feed you?” Lyarra stated flatly. The dragon looked at her, as if to say ‘of course’. 

‘By the Gods, there’s a dragon in my room.’ She felt faint. A hungry newborn in need of sustenance no less. Lyarra wasn’t sure what she was feeling, or which emotions were her own and not spilled over from the beast, but she did know that the dragon was hungry. And she felt duty-bound to feed it- him.

“Wait here,” she ordered. When she stood up, the dragon tried to headbutt her feet before she scooped him up. It was like holding a particularly squirmy puppy, if warmer than other creatures and with thousands upon thousands of dry and smooth scales. Lyarra put him on the bed and arranged the pillow and blankets to make it difficult for him to hobble out. “I’ll be back.”

A keening noise of sadness and a sudden rush of despair nearly made her turn back but Lyarra slipped out of the door anyway. As long as the dragon kept to her room, he would be safe. Lady Catelyn had long ago ordered that each of the children be responsible for the cleanliness and order of their own rooms. Her other siblings may get away with doing the minimal work possible and relying on servants to maintain the rest but Lyarra had never been afforded such leeway. She was grateful for it now.

‘Dragons are carnivorous creatures, so maybe I should bring him meat? But his teeth are so small and milk is better for most babes, is it not?’ To be safe, she took a saucer of milk, a few strips of dried beef, and an apple for herself, before hurrying back. It was still early enough in the morning that she passed barely any servants.

“Oh, what a stubborn creature you are!” Lyarra whispered upon entering the room. The pillow had been pushed two hand's breadth away from its position and the baby dragon was doing his best to untangle the blankets from his spindly legs. Upon her entrance, he perked up and released a joyful series of chirps and chuffs. 

“I have brought food for you.” The dark-haired girl offered the beef strips first but other than gnawing at it happily, the dragon wasn’t able to eat much. She dipped a clean handkerchief, embroidered with her best design of the moon and shooting stars, into the dasher of milk and tickled his throat. “Open.”

Open. Confusion touched her and in response, Lyarra tried to focus on an image of baby Rickon tilting his head up and opening his mouth widely. The dragon replicated the action and she strained the handkerchief over his throat. His throat convulsed as he swallowed it and then his tail shook. Food. 

“Yes, food.” Painstakingly, she fed more and more milk to the dragon until half the saucer was done. He flopped back on the bed then, satisfaction pooling in her stomach and she drank the remainder. 

Mine. The dragon rolled over to look at her hopefully. There was a sense of rightness and contentment in the word. Mine.

“Lyarra,” she whispered back. “I am Lyarra.”

The dragon repeated her name and she knew not what to do. Lyarra had hatched a dragon- a creature that the Citadel had declared lost to myths and legends. There was a beast associated with almost godlike power and fury on her bed now, though it lost much of its awe when it nuzzled her palm. None of her other siblings had done anything remotely similar to this and no one else she knew had either. She was the Bastard of Winterfell and she had hatched a dragon!

Lyarra had a sudden and immediate desire to rush out and drag her entire family here, including, no, especially Lady Catelyn. ‘Look,’ she wanted to shout, ‘A dragon in Winterfell hatched to your husband’s bastard. Nothing your trueborn children accomplished comes close to this. Nothing ever will. Robb can win a hundred wars and he’ll be yet another general, while I brought the dragons back from death!’

Lady Catelyn would be mortified. Her siblings would be shocked and awed, except for Arya, who would gleefully ask for rides when the dragon was big enough. Robb might do the same while Bran would beg her to make him a dragonknight in the most literal sense of the word. Her Father would be proud that such a feat was accomplished by his own daughter. Uncle Benjen would jape that she would never need a flint again. Ravens would be sent out all over Westeros and-

-and King Robert would promptly kill her dragon. And possibly her, for good measure. Either that or take the dragon from the powerless bastard girl to serve the royal family, if the Lannisters decided. 

Lyarra’s enthusiasm abruptly faded when her mind ran through the scenario. The dragon must have felt her disquiet because he reached out to lick her fingers again. 

“You can’t stay here,” Lyarra said painfully. “We need to put you somewhere else.”

Leave? The second consciousness in her mind, that felt distinctly older than her own despite its newborn status, shuffled through her memories again. When it withdrew, she was flooded with panic.

“Not permanently!” Lyarra swore, though she didn’t know if she could keep that promise. “I will bring you to a cave within the weirwoods. No one will bother you there and I shall spend as much time with you as a I possibly can.”

The panic didn’t subside and the dragon began to shake agitatedly on the bed. Unsure of how to react, she instinctively scooped him up to her arms, drawing him closer to her own heartbeat. “Hush, little one. I won’t leave you. I’ll never leave you.”

Lyarra couldn’t explain this either but she knew that she would never willingly abandon the dragon.

She continued to whisper her reassurances and the dragon slowly stilled in her arms. “Listen to me, you must move to the cave. If you are caught here, they will kill both of us. The cave will hide you.”

That wasn’t necessarily true. If her Father found a dragon in her room, he would likely kill the beast himself and then hide its existence from everyone to protect her. The concept of her own mortality, which necessitated another shuffle from the curious beast, did much to silence the dragon though.

“I will visit you. I swear,” Lyarra repeated. There wasn’t a basket present in her room but she could fold two cloaks together for a makeshift bag. She quickly added some of her old dresses that could be torn to make bedding for the dragon and drew out the egg shells to bury in the woods. When the bells for breakfast started and she was reasonably sure that almost all residents of the castle would be in the Great Hall, the dark-haired girl snuck out. Feet all but running down the keep, heartbeat echoing in her ears, Lyarra thought it a wonder that she was not found out.

“There are streams here for you to drink from and I will come every day with food but you must not stray. Do you understand me? You must not stray.”

She had knelt to her feet to look at him, amber gold meeting lavender grey, and trying to emphasize just how important this order was to her. The intelligence of the being that looked back at her made Lyarra think that men were foolish to consider these dragons mere beasts.

Stay. The dragon ducked his head down and repeated sadly. Stay.

‘This is for the best. I mustn’t let anyone see him,’ Lyarra told herself. That it felt like she was leaving a part of her own heart behind as she rushed to the Great Hall was stubbornly pressed down.

Lord Eddard Stark had long decreed that his eldest daughter would be taught by a Septa alongside her trueborn siblings but the one good thing about having a teacher that disdained you, was that lessons could be skipped without any punishment. Lyarra drew no attention when she looked apologetically at Arya (despite the frequency of the skips, her sister had yet to lose her indignation over this injustice) and then fled. No one realized that she didn’t leave to the library.

The dragon was overjoyed to see her again, though nipping at her fingers to reveal some disquiet over being left behind. Lyarra could hardly acknowledge that though as she marvelled over how complete she felt now that she was reunited with this creature of flesh and fire. Questions and concerns were nudging her mind over this entire experience but Lyarra spent the rest of the morning with her dragon anyway. They made a lovely nest out of torn wool, branches, leaves, and wildflowers that he fetched.

It made the cave she had selected seem much cozier though, in truth, it was not much of a cave. It was mostly a large hole in the ground, surrounded by trees and filled with pebbles and such, that lay near a sliver of a stream. There wouldn’t be any predators so close to the castle and she dragged some heavier branches to partially obscure the opening for added protection. 

“I need to bring you lunch now. I’ll be back soon,” Lyarra told him. This time, the whine was less heartrending as he knew she would return.

Promise. Lyarra smiled at how quickly the baby dragon had picked up her previous words. “Promise.”

“Do you want to explore together after lunch?” 

“Not today, Arya. I have an interesting topic to study and I plan to do so for the next few days.” Her younger sister looked disappointed but unsurprised as Lyarra often had a subject or another that preoccupied her for days at a time. Before the dragon came into her life, it was nautical compasses. 

It wasn’t entirely a lie though as before she returned to her dragon- and she should probably name him by now- Lyarra went to the library. Maester Luwin was working now, so she had no need to be discrete as she rapidly skimmed the shelves for any books relating to dragons. She found one on mythical creatures but Lyarra suspected that the tomes on Targaryen history would have their own nuggets of knowledge. She swiped a High Valyrian dictionary too; maybe the dragon would like a name from his homeland. 

Lyarra! Mine. The enthusiasm and heart in the greeting drew a soft smile from her face. Few would call for her with such sincerity.

“How possessive you are! You are the only male I shall allow to claim me as such,” Lyarra teased, sinking her handkerchief in another saucer of milk. “Everyone else shall be denied the pleasure.”

The meal went by quickly and then she was leaning against the cave wall with a dragon purring in her lap. She pulled the book closer. “We should choose a name for you?”

Name? There was a familiar shuffle to her mind that made her recollect her thoughts. “Mine is Lyarra and now we shall pick one for you.”

Anticipation compelled her to open the dictionary. “You’re from Old Valyria and you deserve a proper name as such. Shall I read them aloud to you?” A happy chirp.

“There is Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar for the most famous Targaryen dragons. No? How about Kirine, for ‘happiness’? There is a phrase for it: Tubī hae kesīr sittāks, sesīr kirine iksan. You were born on a day like this one, and so I am happy. Does that not please you?”

A dissenting chuff and she chuckled. “Nedys for courage? Sesīr for enchantment? Dāerves for the freedom you will have in the skies.”

She continued to list words off until one received a nip on her hand. “Azantys?”

The dragon chirped brightly. “Azantys then, for my little warrior.”

The blue-violet wings fluttered happily in the air and she raised him to look directly into those amber eyes. “Hello there. I am Lyarra Snow. What is your name?”

Azantys… The dragon seemed to struggle further and the pressure in her head built again. Lyarra waited patiently. Azantys and I am yours.

x


	3. Chapter 3

Lyanna did not sleep well that night. 

Dreams of shadow and transience slipped past her mind. Childlike bodies peeked at her through the trees and menacing leaf-green eyes beckoned her closer. A blizzard enveloped a milkglass blade hilted by a burning star. A lissome form sunk into the oceans and the sky was wrought by blood and ash. They left the barest impression of fallen rose petals withered by frost. When the dark-haired girl woke, it was to the shivering dawn light and by a touch of the fear that stalked her bed.

Lyarra tried vainly to recall her dreams, received an impression of unease alone, and padded out of bed to find her clothing. Azantys awaited her.

Her schedule had changed with the accompaniment of her unintended familiar. Instead of practicing her sword swings by the castle wall, she would venture deeper into the forest to do so with Azantys. The dusk-toned dragon, while not yet having achieved flight, loved to flap his wings to add force to when he pounced her. Lyarra was at first distressed when having hit him with the flat of her blunted sword but the dragon’s scales deflected the blow marvelously. He ended up tumbling back to the ground, more offended by the dust on his beautiful scales than any pain and pounced her again.

“I don’t think your tactics are particularly effective, little one,” Lyarra noted, repressing her smile. She easily caught him on the next pounce and then started to tickle his stomach. “Surrender dragon!”

No! I never surrender! Azantys wriggled in her grip and started emitting a chuffing, smoke-filled sound that she recognized for laughter. Eventually he managed to use his tail to attack her own stomach and Lyarra released him, still a little awed when his fluttering wings stabilized his descent.

“Do you know when you’ll be able to fly?” She knew that it would be even harder to hide Azantys when he was able to soar through the skies but she was still eager to see him achieve flight. 

No, my wings not strong. What books say? The dragon waddled closer and nudged her knee. Lyarra obediently sat down and gave her spoiled familiar all of the petting he desired.

The dark-haired girl made a face at the question. Lyarra Snow had long lived her life by the fact that all knowledge was valuable and that the simplest means to acquire such was through books. By consequence, the library of Winterfell, which seemed endless and filled with all sorts of particulars for her, became her favorite room in the castle. Unfortunately there appeared little in the way of knowledge about dragons and all of the texts that she did obtain contradicted one another!

One claimed that dragons were born breathing fire, another that five years was necessary before they acquired the ability. If two were to argue that dragons procreated by natural means, then another three would proclaim that eggs would arise from the ground naturally-formed. One particularly dubious text even insisted that dragons were borne of chicken eggs hatched under a toad. And none of them acknowledged dragons as intelligent, sentient creatures!

“My books are not entirely reliable,” Lyarra groused. 

If doing so would not be an immediate death sentence, she would write a book of her own to introduce them. She had already learned quite a bit from observing Azantys. For one, he was incapable of flight or fire at the moment but could puff out smoke at will. His language and reasoning skills were progressing rapidly; in a fortnight, he was able to form disjointed sentences. Of more concern was his physical progress. Most of the books agreed that dragons grew slowly but Azantys was already two fingers taller than when born.

I grow big. We fly to-to- you and me. We fly. Azantys used his tail to acquire a piece of jerky and started munching on it. It took time but he was inordinately pleased to eat an entire strip. 

‘Soaring through the skies on a dragon’s back. That would be the most incredible experience in the world. One that only the Targaryens had ever experienced before.’ That was another thought that had worried her. All of the books held one point in agreement: House Targaryen controlled the dragons and House Targaryen alone.

“I would love to fly with you,” Lyarra told him. “I need to speak to you of something else though. The books speak of dragons of old-”

Worms. Azantys interjected. His childish tone was oddly somber for one so young. Shades.

“I’m sorry?” Lyarra blinked. “Are you talking about the dragons that conquered Westeros?”

She had read the historical account aloud. Lyarra hadn’t thought that he would have listened though.

Not right. Weak. Broke pact. Gone. 

“How do you know that?” Lyarra could practically feel the answer forming on her own lips.

There was a distinct shuffling around in her mind before Azantys replied. Dreams. 

“You have them too?” She drew him closer into her arms, to offer comfort when his wings spasmed in a shudder. “Azantys?”

Dream pact with elves and dragons and humans. Elves gone. Humans break pact. Dragons not smart.

“The ones that Aegon the Conqueror and the others used had lost their intellect,” Lyarra deduced. “That’s why the authors all believe your species to be mindless. How are you different though?”

Azantys headbutted her stomach. He sounded smug when he answered. You have magic.

“I see…” Lyarra’s voice wandered off. “I would have said that magic abandoned Westeros long ago but there’s a lizard on my lap that hiccups smoke. This pact… it was between dragons and the humans of Old Valyria then?”

I know not Old Valyria. Home?

“It used to be. Most of the people died when a volcano exploded in their vicinity. House Targaryen survived and they were the only ones with dragons in Westeros.” Lyarra hesitated and then grabbed a ringlet against her ear. She twirled it in her fingers, the dark brown color near identical to her Father, Uncle Benjen, and Arya’s. “Can… can others bond with dragons?”

Azantys’ answer took her heart, plunged it down a ravine, and then pulverized it under stone. No.

“I see,” Lyarra managed to say. Hatching a dragon egg had done much to her equanimity in receiving startling news- most things in life could be accepted when dragons existed- but this stole her breath. Her mind reached the obvious conclusion. She wasn’t a Stark and a Dayne at all. She was a Stark and a Targaryen.

‘I am so, so grateful that the King doesn’t know I exist,’ was her first, entirely surreal thought. She wanted to laugh or cry or track down her father and demand to know what he could have possibly been thinking when he laid with the Mad King’s wife.

‘Queen Rhaella was old enough to be his own mother!’ Lyarra shook his head, utterly bewildered. ‘He never mentioned spending any time at court but he must have visited once or twice in Lord Arryn’s company. And to think he had attracted the Queen’s attention in such little time!’

First, the Sword of the Morning’s beloved sister and then the Mad King’s wife? Her Father hadn’t been courageous as downright reckless in his romantic endeavors.

You cry now? You sad? Azantys demanded. He pulled out the jerky that he had been gumming on for the last half hour and offered it to her. Hungry?

“No, little one. I was just thinking about my Father. How horrid he must have felt when his sister was kidnapped by his lover’s son…” The pieces clicked together in her head. Targaryen and Stark. Kidnapped to Dorne. Fighting the Sword of the Morning. “Oh.” 

Lyarra no cry? Azantys licked her palm. Feel hot and not sad.

“That would be my embarrassment,” Lyarra told him, face cast crimson. “My Father was Rhaegar Targaryen and my Mother was Lyanna Stark.”

It felt strange to say this aloud, this sudden realization, this precipice that she was standing on, these words that were filled with consequences she had yet to understand. But this wasn’t a fact that she could bottle up inside of her and who else could she share treason with? “My parents are dead.”

Lyarra couldn’t even think of them as her parents. When her mind turned to the word, it was Ned Stark’s face that rose up. Stern and distant, yet always willing to lend an ear if asked or a smile when she had done particularly well in her lessons. He had took her into his home and claimed her as his bastard. She wasn’t even his daughter.

The dark-haired girl didn’t even know she was crying until a rough, forked tongue licked her tears away. Pinpricks littered up and down her arm as Azantys’ tiny claws dug in for purchase. He was wobbling precariously on his hind legs to reach her face. Lyarra said she no cry.

He sounded so petulant, just as Rickon did when denied a sweet or toy, that Lyarra was forced to smile. “I’m sorry. I learned that- that my Father was never my own.”

And Ashara Dayne wasn’t her mother. And the Stark name wasn’t hers to covet. And she was quite possibly born of a union forced against her aunt’s will. 

‘All my life I have desired to be a Stark, to be a trueborn daughter. But even if I was, my House would be Targaryen. The same one my Father- Uncle- went to war to destroy.’ 

“My House is gone. My parents are dead,” Lyarra repeated dully.

I be family? Azantys peered up at her with ageless amber eyes. I am yours and you am mine. 

“Are. I am yours and you are mine,” Lyarra whispered back. She picked him and hugged him, careful to spare his delicate wings any rough treatment. “You are my family, little one. You must never doubt that and I shall not either.”

Azantys succumbed to the affection, pleased to have rid her of the malaise and she amused herself by playing with him until lunch approached. When it did so, she crawled out of the small cave, brushed wood chips out of her dress, and headed back to the castle. Unable to face Fath- Ucl- Lord Stark yet, Lyarra picked up a few slices of bread and headed towards the library. She wouldn’t have thought anyone noticed her missing until Arya starting calling out her name.

“Lyarra? Lyarra? Lyaa- here, you are!” The dark-haired Stark ran up to her. “You missed lunch!”

“I was lost in a book.” She held up the treatise on wine-making as proof, though she could barely focus enough to recall one in three words read. “You shouldn’t run in the library.”

“It’s okay if you don’t hit anything,” Arya insisted. She plopped down next to her. “I was looking for you. I never see you anymore! You skipped all of the Septa’s lessons,-she’s making us do needlepoint all the time- you never have time to play with me and now you’re skipping meals too!”

“I’ve been getting a lot of reading done.”

“Where? You’re never in the library anymore either,” Arya pointed out. “Are you going on adventures? Without me?”

“I’ve been reading elsewhere. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“You’ll be at dinner today, won’t you? Cook is making blueberry tarts. They’re your favorite.”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter,” she repeated. Her anxiety and pain over the entire situation was bubbling into irritation and she was attempting to moderate her tone before she turned that ire towards her sist- cousin.

“It does matter. Dinner is family time. Father will be upset if you’re not there.”

“Yes, well I’m not family, am I?” Lyarra snapped. 

Arya’s eyes widened and she was on the brink of apology when those mist grey orbs flashed. “Who said that to you? Of course you’re family. Tell me who said that and I’ll kick-”

“I’m not a Stark, Arya!” She didn’t know how loud her voice had risen until it echoed slightly against the wooden beams of the tower room. She quieted down. “I’m not a Stark.”

Her cousin looked stunned by the reaction. ‘Was this the first time that I raised my voice to her?’ 

Arya had always been her favorite, the one she indulged more than she probably should have. Lyarra had been cross with her before but she had never resorted to yelling. 

“I’m sorry. I have to go. I have to be alone now.” She needed to get out of here. The walls were closing in on her, Arya’s shocked and hurt face was searing itself into her mind. She needed Azantys.

Lyarra’s nearly skid as she scrambled up to her feet, shame and self-loathing and an irrational desire to lash out at the world, welling up in her chest. This was suffocated by another feeling, alien and familiar all at once, of confusion and reassurance. It flickered once and then determination spilt through her body.

She was struck by a sudden, horrified understanding. ‘Azantys means to come here!’

Her brave, caring, utterly stupid dragon warrior! Lyarra leapt down the final five steps, stumbled near to one knee, and ran on. She had to get there before he reached the wall. She couldn’t let him be seen. Both of their lives hung in the balance! ‘Whatever you do, Azantys don’t come to the castle!’

Lyarra was too panicked to notice that the determination faltered to confusion or that her upwelling of desperation, centered around one sole wish for Azantys to stay hidden, was transferred. She didn’t notice her the palms of her hand being skinned by rocks with how quickly she snuck through the hole. She didn’t hear the nimble feet pursuing her from behind.

‘Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move.’ Lyarra prayed silently to anyone who would listen. She had navigated this path enough times that she could move through it without issue, jumping over gnarled roots and ducking hanging branches on her pathway to the makeshift shelter. Her violet eyes skimmed the surrounding around her but she couldn’t see any sign of claw prints or ash to suggest Azantys’ presence. Hope started to bloom inside her.

It was compounded by an immediate influx of knee-weakening relief when a dusk-toned serpentine head stuck above the cavern. Her head spun as if drunk when she ran over to him and Lyarra couldn’t tell when her own respite mixed with his, for this level of emotion felt overflowing inside of her.

Lyarra! Azantys’ wings beat rapidly to bring him up a meter or two and her arms did the rest. 

‘Azantys…’ Her heart thudded rapidly with adrenaline. ‘You didn’t leave.’

Wanted to. Lyarra said not to. The dragon’s head was buried in her chest but his long neck twisted for him to look up, amber eyes glinting. I listened.

“You did,” the Snow child said softly. “You could hear me?”

Rather than respond, Azantys burrowed his face into her dress again. Sad. There. Don’t go. Here. Me.

The disquiet offered by their bond, unusual and frightening at first but now as ubiquitous to her as any of her own limbs, did more to reveal how upset he was then the jumbled words. In response, she leaned forward and placed a kiss on his brow. Lyarra had known of the dangers that she was courting, acknowledged the concerns of a rapidly growing dragon held by a secret Targaryen but it hadn’t been as realistic to her as today. 

Azantys was a child. He had felt her distress and responded to it. He had almost shown himself to others, risking her life but more importantly, his own. This dragon was her responsibility in a manner that no one else had ever been. He would one day be capable of mastering great powers, like flight or fire but now, he could be killed by a lucky hunting dog. It was her job to keep them safe.

Lyarra had known this too, but hadn’t a chance to admit it yet. ‘We’ll have to flee.’

North past the Wall or South beyond the Narrow Sea. To isolated realms offering the best protection they could afford at this time: secrecy. Lyarra had no wealth and power of her own and Azantys couldn’t fight off a single soldier now, much less an army. They needed to find a secure location where he could grow in peace.

“Lyarra?” The Snow child’s face whiplashed from how quickly she had jerked up her neck.

Standing several feet away, Arya’s eyes were fastened directly on Azantys. “Is that a dragon?”

x


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Her body was moving before her mind caught up to her. Lyarra’s hand encircled Arya’s thin wrist in a vice grip, nails curled inwards to keep from cutting the pale flesh. She dragged the smaller girl into the burrow with her and abruptly jerked the Stark child around to look directly into her eyes.

“Did anyone follow you?” Lyarra asked harshly. Out of the corner of her eye, Azantys had circled around to cover the opening, balancing on hind legs and extending his wings to look more intimidating. The sunlight past the flimsy starched membranes cast violet shards around them and made the Snow’s lavender eyes glow, though she remained unaware of the effect.

Arya looked back, startled true, yet undaunted by her reaction. “No.”

The fear in Lyarra’s chest uncoiled minutely but she continued to grasp her cousin’s wrists. “Why did you follow me?”

“You were upset. Why wouldn’t I have followed you?” Arya countered reasonably. The grey-eyed girl twisted around in her grasp to stare at Azantys again. “You hatched a dragon, Lyaa?”

“I-” Her voice failed her. There was no explanation to be offered for the act of treason. 

She underestimated Arya though, for while keeping one hand securely in her own, the child fearlessly crept closer to the mythical beast. The expression on her face bespoke awe alone. “It’s beautiful.”

“His name is Azantys.” Taking a deep breath at Arya’s wide smile, she released her cousin’s hand and mentally beckoned the little dragon over. In typically graceless form, the creature born to fly scraped hard claws click-clack on stone and wood chips in his eagerness to return to her arms. Lyarra caught him mid-leap and adjusted her arms, allowing a scaly snout and gem-like eyes to peer through. 

“Azantys,” Arya repeated. “When did he hatch? Can he fly? Does he breathe fire? Can I touch him?”

“He hatched three sennights ago and he can’t fly or breathe fire yet. He does know how to blow smoke though. And yes, I suppose that you may rub his forehead. Don’t touch his wings. They’re delicate,” Lyarra rattled off by nature. Allowing more tension to drain out, she kept a sharp eye on the dragon. Arya tapped his head perhaps more forcefully than one should to a newborn but Azantys took no offense as the Stark eagerly familiarized herself with his skin.

“His scales are so soft!” Arya noted with delight. “Bran won’t believe that I petted a dragon!”

‘Terror, my old friend, we may reacquaint ourselves.’ Lyarra managed a few deep breaths in and out before she resorted to shaking any shoulders, or worse, crying. “Bran doesn’t know I have a dragon.”

Arya’s face brightened. “Then may I be the one to tell him?”

“No.” It seems inadequate for the emotion inside of her, so she stresses the words further. “No. You mustn’t tell anyone, Arya. No one can ever know.”

Lyarra reaches out to grasp her hand now and squeezes it in a silent plea for understanding and compliance. Even if Arya didn’t understand the reason why, her storm grey eyes and long face add an air of solemnity to the air. “Promise me on your honor as a Stark that you won’t tell anyone.”

“I promise.” The words slip through easily, bought by the trust and affection between two sisters. Then her head cocks left in confusion and her brows furrow. “But why can’t I tell anyone, Lyarra?”

Perhaps had Lyarra adored her sister even an iota less than she did, had she not trusted her in equal measure, had not the younger child held her confidence for years, she would have stayed silent. As it was, the scene was of two dark-haired girls mirroring one another, the eldest with a dusk-toned dragon in her arms and the other utterly indifferent to the oddity of the situation, and Lyarra spoke.

She confessed to her discovery of the dragon eggs in the crypt. She confessed to accidentally hatching Azantys and hiding him within the Weirwoods. She confessed to her suspicions about her heritage and she confessed to the fear burdening her heart should that bloodline be revealed. Lyarra confessed everything and Arya, perceptive, stubborn, fearless, trustworthy Arya listened. When it was done, the Snow child waited anxiously for her cousin’s reaction.

“Oh. Is that why you said you’re not a Stark?” The girl huffed. “Stupid. Aunt Lyanna was a Stark.”

“Not really the point,” Lyarra managed, a breathless laugh of disbelief bubbling upwards. “Is that all you can say Arya?”

“Does Azantys really know how to speak?” Arya’s second question was delivered to equal surprise.

In response, the dusk-toned lizard peered upwards. Hello.

The word echoed in her head and, from the gasp released by one Stark child, in Arya’s as well. 

For once in her young life, Arya Stark was stunned into silence. One second later. “You can talk!”

I can talk! Azantys preened in her arms, wings fluttering and causing Lyarra to lean backward to avoid being hit. You can talk.

“Well, of course, I can talk,” Arya grinned. “We really should introduce him to the family Lyaa.”

“No. It’s too dangerous,” Lyarra immediately refused. “You promised to keep Azantys a secret.”

“I know but Father won’t care if you’re a Targaryen. He’s the one that told everyone you’re his daughter!” Arya pointed out. “Maybe now Mother won’t treat you badly anymore either.”

“It doesn’t matter what Lady Catelyn thinks of my birth status,” was the cool response. “I would like to keep Azantys a secret for now, Arya. Please don’t tell anyone.”

“I already promised that I wouldn’t, didn’t I?” Arya purposefully widened her eyes and stuck her bottom lip out. “Lyarra, can I have a dragon too?”

“Where am I supposed to get you a dragon?” Lyarra inwardly shuddered at the logistics of hiding another being of fire made flesh.

“You have two more eggs,” Arya swiftly reminded her. “Can I have a dragon, please, please, please, please? I’ll feed him and walk him and love him forever, I promise!”

The dark-haired Snow averted her eyes before she could break out into laughter again. “I can’t give you a dragon Arya. Even if I was able to hatch the other eggs, which I don’t think I can, only a Targaryen can control them and well…”

“I’m not a Targaryen and you are,” Arya supplied, sighing. “Ah, well. Can I play with Azantys then?”

Yes! I want to play with Ar-ya. She was suddenly directed by two sets of pleading eyes, her cousin’s storm grey orbs providing admirable competition in adorableness to the gemlike eyes of Azantys. 

“I don’t mind but you can’t visit without me.” At the rebellious look present, she added sternly. “I mean it Arya. I need to make sure that we can sneak out here without catching anyone’s attention.”

“But you were the one that ended up being followed.” Good point unacknowledged, Lyarra merely placed the dragon back on the ground and watched as her cousin began to play with him. The three spent the afternoon contentedly in this manner and when evening fell, Arya fed Azantys. 

“You won’t miss dinner again, will you?” Arya asked quietly, hand slipping into her own. The younger girl smiled up at her uncertainly and squeezed her hand. “You’re a Stark to me, at least.”

Throat tightening, she managed a nod. This was… Arya had been… remarkably kind and yet utterly heartbreaking at the same time. Lyarra could feel Azantys’ presence touch her mind once again, offering its own silent comfort, as she considered that her cousin- her sister’s- words were given at the one time in her life that she couldn’t afford to be a Stark. She had already set her mind to flee.

Lyarra Snow (or Sand or Stark or Targaryen, she genuinely did not know) was a planner by nature. In times of considerate personal distress or emotional upheaval, she turned to the structure of ink and parchment, in the orderly lines of tasks that need be fulfilled for her chosen aim. Even with a path as unpalatable as that of a fugitive, she found solace in having some manner to complete her goals.

The moment dinner ended, Lyarra sent her commiserations to Azantys, receiving a disgruntled acceptance in return, before heading to the library. Her previous search had revealed few books earmarked for House Targaryen alone but few was not the same as none. And even if books regarding the dying House were purged entirely, they had made too great a mark on history for her Lord Uncle to deny them entirely. Had he desired to keep any remnants of the last three centuries of Westerosi history in his possession, then he would have to possess tomes indirectly covering the Dragonborn.

Lyarra was not quite so trusting to withdraw the few Targaryen-specific books herself though. She directed a bored Arya to do so in her stead and gathered the ones on recent history instead. The remainder of the night was spent burning down her few candles to read them.

‘Hast not thine own blood commanded all of me / Tattered flesh fed to stars that mine will ever see / That I should rest without sinew or bone / Dust may winnow over the Iron Throne / All I have ever given in my stone-cold age / Shall fade in the annals to one mere page.’

She mouthed the words to herself, engrossed in the fury of the Prince of Dragonflies as he related his own helplessness to the strictures of duty and name. Lyarra recalled how his own decision mirrored the tragic story of her own parents, a story that she herself regarded with uncertainty. Doubtlessly she was happy to be alive but was her story one of youthful folly or a maiden’s forceful dishonour? The men of the North spoke of a beautiful woman stolen from her family and guarded in a southern tower by a merciless dragon. Was that her father’s legacy? Had she been born yet another Dareon? 

‘Is a child born of a married man’s infatuation with a young girl any better?’ Lyarra thought wryly. Regardless, she did not think that she would ever be welcome in a Martell household. The poetry set aside, she selected a slim tome covering maritime trade in the Crownlands and read there.

None of these subjects would seem particularly useful to a noble-raised child planning to flee the only home she had ever known but Lyarra believed otherwise. It was startling to see how much of an impact House Targaryen had in the relatively short duration of their reign. In the timespan of mere centuries, they had undeniably altered the very fabric of the landscape and culture. Their wars had been bloody affairs and yet, Westeros had experienced an unprecedented long-term peace and growth. It had engendered a loyalty that compelled men to die for the dragons in droves, even when a king as unmitigatedly brutal as Aerys was at the helm. 

‘Which legacy,’ she wondered, ‘Should I prize more? The Starks that had held the North for well over three thousand years or the Targaryens that had ascended more quickly and shown more brightly than any House before them? Conquerors and conciliators, geniuses and madmen, the Cruel and the Good and this is the whim of the Gods that I have inherited.’

Lyarra took the time to send a brief prayer to the Old Gods that she would keep her good sense.

Eventually her desire to learn was eclipsed by the demands of her body and her eyes started drooping down. Taking one second to blow out her last candle, Lyarra drowsily curled up in the thick nest of blankets that she preferred to her bed, unlike the more mundane sleeping arrangements of the other residents of Winterfell and fell to sleep. Her dreams centered around a older boy with silver-gold hair and blue-violet eyes swimming confidently through the waves. When she woke up, those dreams fell to shadows in her mind.

A sennight passed as the dark-haired Snow prepared for her eventual journey. She slowly started filching more food from the kitchens, items that wouldn’t spoil quickly, such as salted beef strips, smoked fish, dried wheat and rye, confited fowl, and pickled vegetables. A book of maps was withdrawn from the library to be copied in her own hand while flints, herbs, water skins, and such were stolen from around the castle. Her clothes were carefully selected for preservation quality and her precious few coins were bundled into a simple handkerchief. Lyarra spent particular time on selecting three sturdy saddlebags, one to hold grain and milk for her horse and dragon, another for her clothing and papers, and a third for her miscellaneous supplies. 

She didn’t know if Arya noticed the discrete actions but hoped that her little sister was too immersed with Azantys to pay attention to her. And of course, each night an emotionally if not physically exhausted Lyarra fell asleep. Her dreams were no longer of an ominous nature but centered around the actions of a boy that she imagined to be the younger form of her father. It brought her a strange form of comfort to wake up to those dreams, however borne of wistful imagination they may have been, except for the one on her eighth night.

‘What did I just see?’ By nature, the dreams tended to fade in the light of day but through willpower alone, Lyarra mentally demanded them to stay. A recollection of a massive statue of green-tinged bronze and black granite bridging two islands and reaching upwards to pierce the heavens themselves. Creative she may have been but those memories were uncannily detailed.

It was also the first time she could recollect the settings with any certainty. Normally the beautiful young man was slipping between human-shaped shadows, sitting cross-kneed with a book in hand or even standing at the bow of a ship. Regardless of how mundane the action may be, the boy’s features and movements remained central to her focus, any surroundings muddled in comparison. This time she recognized something else in the dreams: the famous Titan of Braavos.

‘My dreams were fed of idle curiosity and lessons of years’ past,’ Lyarra told herself briskly. She knew the broad strokes of each of the world’s wonders and while she would have loved to see any of them, she had never been given the opportunity. Any details were invented by wanderlust and fancy.

Not even able to persuade herself and more than a little hesitant over her own dawning suspicions, Lyarra reluctantly trudged to the library. She even more reluctantly withdrew a book of renowned man made structures of the world. With the greatest reluctance that it was possible to show and yet, a heady set of anticipation and confused yearning for her suspicions to prove true, Lyarra flipped to the proper landmark. 

Black spruce lining the feet of the statue. Bronze breastplate punctured with arrow slits. Large fires burning like beacons inside the eyes. All details that she had never known and could not possibly have imagined so accurately unless her dreams weren’t dreams at all. 

‘The books did mention something about dragon dreams, did they not?’ Lyarra rubbed her forehead, feeling a migraine build up. ‘Perhaps I am meant to sail to Braavos one day.’

Of course, there remained the small matter of a boy near her own age with the otherworldly beauty of the dragons. None knew of Lyanna Stark bearing a daughter to Rhaegar Targaryen and when one could accept Lyarra’s own existence, the belief of another dragon child living was not too unbelievable. She had been told that a babe was presented in a blood-red cloak, head smashed in by Lord Tywin’s pet monster. Babes were not so distinctive in appearance that she did not believe one could not be swapped with another to accept its grisly fate.

She forcefully dismissed the notion of Aegon Targaryen sailing towards the Titan of Braavos from her mind. Once she dealt with the matter of the juvenile dragon hidden in the woods, she could consider her potential half-brother raised from the dead. There was no guarantee for either pleasure or censure in his reaction to her and any debts owed by the matter of their kinship were of another day’s consideration. Lyarra Snow had a brother. She had three of them in fact, and the knowledge that they were her cousins did nothing to diminish the love for the Stark boys that she had been raised with.

‘It does offend that he is even more comely than I am though,’ Lyarra sulked. ‘Those eyelashes…’

Unusually petulant over the realization, and yes, it did injure her pride to learn that she derived some vanity over often being the most beautiful person in the room, Lyarra took a break from her preparations to play with Azantys for the day. She shared her newfound suspicions with him and he reassured her that he still thought she was the loveliest person in the world. She laughed over the flattery and fed him an additional strip of bacon in gratitude.

In other news, Azantys’ primary form of sustenance supplanted smoked meat for warm milk. 

Expecting another dream of an ethereal dragonborn man, Lyarra was surprised when she appeared in a strangely lit corridor within Winterfell. An impulse drove her down the corridor and to the left, gradually moving from quarters that she recognized until she came across an older, unrecognizable line of doors within the castle. She knew that Winterfell was old and massive but childhood explorations pinpointed it as a dusty room meant for branch families when the Starks actually had more than one line. The Snow child passed seamlessly through the door, shivering when the expected impact of flesh against wood didn’t occur and into a nondescript bedroom with a bed, washbasin, and single set of drawers. She knelt on the floor, the cold stone making an impression even within her sleep, and stretched one hand into the darkness. 

Then Lyarra Snow woke up and resigned herself to a newfound ability that conspired to torment her. 

‘Mayhaps there is a reason other than inbreeding for madness to plague the Targaryen line,’ she mused, obediently directing her steps to the path revealed by her dreams. The dark-haired girl wouldn’t have been so willing to venture to the unknown had it not been for her certainty that no harm would come to her long as a Stark held Winterfell.

To her utter lack of surprise, she was able to withdraw a small chest from below the bed. Brushing the dust aside, Lyarra dubiously eyed the simple lock on the wooden slats and then ferried it back to her room. It looked old enough that she doubted it would be missed should she forcefully break it open. 

One heartbeat later, she was withdrawing laminated letters between Lyarra and Benjen Stark. An immediate pursual of the top one revealed that there hadn’t been a kidnapping in place. A more detailed look caused her to immediately throw the letter back into the chest and slam in closed, useless lock and all. By all the bloody Gods.

Lyarra promptly buried her face in her hands and fought down the welling despair. The possible survival of Aegon Targaryen or not, this letter signed her death warrant. No depth of love for Lyanna Stark would convince Robert Baratheon to spare a trueborn heir to the throne.

Lyarra. A foreign feeling of concern and disquiet grew inside of her and Lyarra focused on them to draw herself up. Alright, so another factor existed for her immediate death warrant besides the circumstances of her birth. These letters merely existed as confirmation to origins she had already suspected, no more and no less a threat to her than Azantys’ very existence was. 

‘Then the question is whether or not to burn them.’ She had no desire to do so. These were letters written in her mother’s hand, a penmanship that was not nearly so graceful as her own yet decisive and demanding. Lyarra tentatively moved through the four other letters present, recognizing another of Lyanna Stark, two of her Uncle Benjen’s spidery scrawl, and a last in the most elegant script she had ever seen. Her eyes fell to the bottom and found the sender’s name: Rhaegar Targaryen.

She read that one next and found it to be a short and cordial notification of two accounts being set up in the Iron Bank for Lyanna Stark’s bridal price and his unnamed daughter’s dowry. Refusing to admit that her tears were due to being wanted in some measure by her father, Lyarra gently put the letter down. There. Now that it existed as proof of inheritance, she couldn’t afford to throw it away.

That Lyarra didn’t have the willpower to throw away the only memento of her birth father was a fact resolutely unacknowledged. 

Not eager for any more surprises for the day, the dark-haired girl returned the letters to the chest and pushed it under her own bed. As she withdrew her hand, she jostled the warm stone of the pale gold and ruby red eggs and reminded herself that a fourth saddlebag would be necessary. One with enough room for Azantys to curl into should she come across any company on the road.

Her preparations during that day were even more hurried than the other ones and for a moment, Lyarra thought she saw suspicion on her sister’s face. Arya did not see fit to question her though and the hidden Targaryen did not draw the subject up herself. She tried to spend as much time in the next few days in the company of her siblings as she could. The beginnings of a plan were forming in her mind and Lyarra knew it would soon be time for her to leave.

There was one task that the dark-haired girl absolutely needed to fulfill first though. Thus, despite the risk involved, Lyarra smuggled Azantys down to the Winterfell crypts in the dead of night and headed for her mother’s grave.

Why Lyarra Mama rock? Snuggled between two blankets, her dusk-toned dragon was more than happy to make a temporary nest in the saddlebag.

“My mother’s dead, Azantys. I wanted to pay my respects to her grave and introduce you,” Lyarra replied softly. While she could communicate with the dragon mentally, she found it to be more taxing in general and not as reliable as the spoken word. “This is Lyanna Stark, the She-Wolf of Winterfell.”

Pretty rock. Hi, Lyarra Mama. Azantys used one claw to tap the statue’s clasped hands fondly. Family?

“Yes. Just like Arya, my family is yours too,” Lyarra told him. She had brought flowers for the occasion. Not winter roses that had decorated her crown and brought so much tragedy to the land and to Houses Stark and Targaryen but a bouquet of wildflowers. Instead of the heavy scent of roses, they held the promise of spring mornings and light breezes. “This is my familiar, Azantys, Mother. A dragon I hatched by mine own two hands. Do you think Father would have been proud?”

In the silence, she studied the statue more closely. Though there was not a reaction to be found, there was something about the warmly smiling stone figure that hinted at approval. Lyarra shook her head, dark curls flying. She was attributing her own wishes to the object. “I wish that I had more time to learn about you, Mother. That I had been able to honor you as a daughter should.”

“I plan to flee south for safety, Mother. I think I may know of one to give me shelter,” she continued. “When I pass by the Trident, I will offer a bouquet for Father too.”

One flower from Lyarra Mama. Azantys darted forward and picked up a single white wildflower. Here. 

“Thank you, Azantys. That’s a good idea. Father’s bouquet will include one from your own, Mother.”

Don’t cry, Lyarra. The dragon’s claws dug into the bodice of her simple green dress, as he darted up and licked her cheeks. Salty.

“Just for a moment, little one,” the dark-haired girl murmured. They spent a minute in silence for the woman, barely more than a girl of five-and-ten, that died to bring a child into this dangerous world. It was an action of foolishness and impulsiveness that she couldn’t bring herself to celebrate, for it was alien to her own sensibilities. Neither could Lyarra condemn a mother’s love for her child, especially in relation to her own gratitude for the gift of life.

There was no physical sign of approval from the realm of the dead but Lyarra was nonetheless happy. She walked away from the crypts with the sense of having renewed her link to her Stark heritage. She had shied away from the connection in the past due to her own shameful baseborn status but now felt determined to pride herself on it. In the end, Lady Catelyn had been correct in her own way. She would never be a true Stark like her cousins, not when her father had claimed her as his own and when her Targaryen side had asserted itself but she was still a member of House Stark. Another surname didn’t weaken the blood ties she inherited byway of her mother or the love that Lord Stark and his trueborn children had freely given her.

‘It’s a shame that the moment I feel like I truly belong at Winterfell, that I have to leave it,’ Lyarra mused. She focused on her words and tried to send a message. ‘Do you feel comfortable there?’

Yes. The blankets are warm. Azantys reply was much quicker. Will they move on the horse?

‘It will jostle somewhat but I added as much padding as I could. We will have to move quickly before my Uncle sends out the ravens to warn his bannermen. I’m sorry little one.’

I’m not afraid. Azantys bared his teeth and made a soft hissing noise. I will protect you in wilds.

‘And I shall protect you too.’ Despite the desertion of the area, Lyarra kept her footsteps nimble and silent as she walked over to the horse. She had chosen a gentle and sturdy mare from the stables, desiring a steed that wouldn’t spook at Azantys’ approach and that wouldn’t be too valuable to the stables. She was stealing enough supplies from Winterfell as it was.

As the horse had been snuck out to the Weirwoods this morning- and she truly, utterly, deeply did not feel guilty about tipping crates of molasses over the gate guards and pinning the blame on that Greyjoy ass- Lyarra hadn’t much more to do. The saddlebags were equipped, her maps checked, and her path set as she placed a foot on the stirrup.

“You won’t even say goodbye?” Lyarra jumped a foot into the air and then spun around to the location of the voice. One hand pressed to her beating heart for calm, lavender eyes fell on a dark-haired child. She winced. 

"Arya," she murmured. "You weren't supposed to find me."

“You’re not very good at sneaking around,” her little sister noted. Despite the carelessness of her words, storm grey orbs were awash in tears when Arya stepped into the moonlight. Still in her sleep clothes, hair loose from typically tight braids, and mouth set into a stern frown. “You’re leaving.”

She nodded. “I have to. Azantys will only grow bigger and staying here leaves the family at risk from the King’s rage.”

Her hands curled into fists. “Father is the King’s best friend. Maybe he would accept a dragon here.”

Lyarra stepped away from the horse and leaned down. One hand reached out to caress the younger girl’s wet cheeks. “You don’t believe that Arya. You've always been a clever one. You know that the King will accuse Father of treason. At best, Azantys and myself will be the only ones to hang.”

The little she-wolf violently shook her head but didn’t protest. “We can hide it here.”

“Not forever,” Lyarra refuted calmly. “I am not leaving without a plan. I will be able to find temporary shelter at least and keep the danger away from the North.”

“Take me with you,” her sister demanded. 

“The South is no place for a Stark, Arya.”

“You’re a Stark too,” Arya hiccuped. She accepted the hug that Lyarra offered, clinging tightly to her body as though her spindly arms alone could keep the other from leaving. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to go either,” Lyarra confessed. “This isn’t the end though. One day, we’ll meet again. Perhaps then Azantys will be big enough to give us a ride.”

“I’ll be holding you to that promise.” Arya turned to where a dusk-toned dragon was solemnly watching their goodbye. “Take care of her for me?”

Azantys released a chirping noise that the younger girl took as an affirmative. She turned towards the bushes and Lyarra was surprised to find her come out with a small bundle in her arms. 

“Here.” Arya shoved the bundle forward and the unmistakable clanking of coins could be heard within. “I’ve been getting this ready since I first saw you prepare for your trip. It’s not much but…”

“Arya! I can’t take this.” Lyarra tried to push it back but her sister stepped back defiantly.

“You need this more than I do now,” Arya told her. “It’s not a gift though. It’s a loan and you have to come back home to pay me back.”

“I’ll do that then.” With a brittle smile on her lips, she leaned forward and placed a light kiss on the other girl’s brow. “I love you.”

The Stark’s words were practically a mumble. “Love you more.”

With a more genuine but still heartbreakingly sad smile, Lyarra drew her into another hug. Her final words were whispered into the girl’s dark hair. “Love you most.”

They stayed interlocked for a few moments longer before Lyarra forcefully pulled herself away. With the moon and stars as their only witness, one girl with dark hair and lavender eyes straddled a horse and the other with equally dark hair and grey eyes watched.The elder deftly turned the horse towards the beaten path out of Winterfell and slowly rode it out. She looked back once alone and caught the eyes of the younger girl pinned steadfastly to her form. 

‘Arya… we’ll meet again one day, I swear.’

x


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 

_ Can I eat this? _

 

“That is a stone, Azantys. You stomach will reject it.”

 

_ Can I eat this? _

 

“I don’t think your snout can get around the apple’s flesh.”

 

_ Can I eat this? _

 

Lyarra paused and considered the vibrant blue wings of the butterfly fluttering over them. Her dusk-toned dragon had abandoned his attempts to chase the rolling apple around their temporary camp spot, unable to prevent himself from nudging it forward with his snout whenever he attempted to bite it. Now he was eyeing the butterfly with an eager glint to his eye. Perhaps another woman would have refused the hunting of such a delicate creature but the Snow child merely shrugged.

 

“You’re welcome to try, little one.” 

 

She had used their bond to check if her familiar was truly hungry and, when finding that he was not, surmised that Azantys was simply curious. It was unfortunate that the dragon had known only the small world of her room and his burrow for the short duration of his life. Lyarra’s heart had hurt when she saw how pleased he was to splash amongst the shallows of a pond. 

 

_ ‘How much more of the world could we explore together if we didn’t have to hide?’ _ Lyarra thought wistfully, ‘ _ How wondrous would it be to see the Titan of Braavos with my own eyes? _ ’

 

The dark-haired girl had continued having dreams of Aegon, the rightful King of Westeros and her half-brother, for the last three days of her journey. The former was easier to accept than the latter, especially since she occasionally fantasized about Aegon sitting on that cursed throne. He could handle paperwork, squabbling courtiers and scheming nobles, while she explored the world on a dragon’s back. Lyarra didn’t know how successful her half-brother would be as King but her dreams now showed him studying economics, practicing swordsmanship and even fishing with the local boys. The glimpse into his life didn’t account for kindness or wisdom but she saw neither cruelty nor incompetence either and perhaps that would be enough for Westeros.

 

She was far more concerned about how he would treat her as a brother. No doubt a child born of an affair between his father and another woman would be greeted warily. Lyarra didn’t consider herself the reason for Robert’s Rebellion, because the powder keg of Aerys’ mounting fury was bound to blow at any day, but her mother’s ‘kidnapping’ was certainly the spark that lit it. Her birth was proof of Prince Rhaegar’s regard for a woman who wasn’t Aegon’s mother and she suspected that would prove a stumbling block to Aegon accepting her as his sister.

 

_ ‘Not that I need another brother _ ,’ she reminded herself briskly. ‘ _ I have been blessed with the affection of three wonderful brothers already. _ ’

 

If nothing else, the dragon eggs she carried might be the peace offering that earned her a king’s protection. Aegon Targaryen was being offered a princely education in Essos and Lyarra couldn’t see why that would be so, unless he was planning to regain their father’s throne one day.

 

_ ‘Would he expect Azantys and I to fight for him? What if House Stark declared for King Robert?’  _ Lyarra shuddered. The air felt so much colder all of a sudden.  _ ‘Mayhaps running away to a wild little corner of the world and hunkering down for the rest of my life isn’t such a bad idea.’ _

 

_ Come back to me pretty food! _

 

Drawn out of her thoughts by Azantys’ mental demand, Lyarra turned to find the dragon pouncing on the bewinged insect. It flew out of his reach, lazily flying circles around the growling beast, before ducking downwards again. In the sun-dappled ground, Azantys’ gemlike eyes glowed with its intensity.

 

_ Come back! I just want to eat you! _

 

Her dragon blowed a ring of smoke up into the air, the ash-grey cloud covering the butterfly. It’s flight became more erratic as Azantys’ hind legs tensed. Another heartbeat and he was jumping into the air, jaw wide open to catch the poor insect. He landed ungainly on the ground, rolling over with the force of his fall and then popping up. There was a brief moment of triumph on the dragon’s scaly face.

 

Then it twisted in disgust.  _ Ech! This tastes bad! _

 

Azantys spit out his catch and the butterfly flew through the air to land hard on the soil. It beat its mangled wings slowly, unable to fly again, as Azantys looked down with a thoroughly vexed expression. The baby dragon turned to her, looking betrayed by the fruits of his successful hunt.

 

_ Lyarra! Food tastes bad!  _ The dragon’s tone was veering close to a whine.  _ Don’t like it. _

 

“Butterflies are not proper meals for a growing baby dragon,” Lyarra chided. She took out a strip of smoked beef from the pack and offered it to him. “Would you like this instead?”

 

Azantys pounced on her hand eagerly and was soon happily chomping on the meat between his claws. The ease by which he dropped his grudge made her suspect that it was a ruse for more treats. If anything, that minimal show of cunning only made her smile more. 

 

When Azantys was well and fed, Lyarra checked once more on her steed, newly called ’Fireheart’ for she remembered not its old name, and then laid down to sleep. The packed soil and small stones had become all too familiar to her for the last few days and they were less welcome than the warmth of her familiar’s heated scales. She had carefully smothered her fire and covered any tracks along the way, along with keeping a dagger by her side, though Lyarra doubted she needed it. 

 

The dragon dreams had been uncommonly helpful with guiding her journey and keeping her far from any trouble. Not a single one of Lord Stark’s patrols had found her yet and they were doubtlessly doing their best to do so. Her Lord Uncle may be called the Quiet Wolf but in the few occasions that his temper had been roused, it was formidable. Yet another reason to travel south by land than take a ship at White Harbor. It was the more difficult route but it also didn’t have one of the more capable Stark bannermen keeping an eye out for his lord’s errant daughter.

 

_ ‘I wonder if they would even recognize me as a woman here.’  _ Lyarra loved her dark brown waves and cutting them close to her head had been painful. In comparison, rubbing dirt into her face and changing into a cook’s borrowed trousers were painless. As a servant, she could keep her head down none would have the chance to recognize her distinctive violet-tinted grey eyes.

 

When those eyes closed, Lyarra fell into a dream where a familiar silver-haired boy was leaning back against his hammock, reading a heavy book by the port window of a ship. She positioned herself next to him and leaned forward, so that she may be able to read the words as well.

 

‘ _ The revenue from the Reach is primarily composed of foodstuffs, particularly the exportation of grain to the Westerlands and fruits and vegetables to the Crownlands byway of the Rose Road… _ ’

 

A pattern was established as Lyarra’s journey continued. She would ride along the Kingsroad, occasionally moving Fireheart to the side of the road whenever her instincts or dreams compelled her to and take periodic breaks to allow Azantys to stretch his wings. They hunted together during this time to supplant her limited food supplies. The dragon was more of a hindrance than a help most times but he was getting better and had even caught a snow rabbit once. At night she would make camp in the forest and dream of Aegon’s adventures. Her scope of sight had improved- she saw another man, hair dyed blue and with a neatly trimmed goatee, a woman dressed as a Septa and a name: the  _ Shy Maid _ .

 

Lyarra also noted how her dragon dreams gained greater clarity and lasting power, the further south the Snow child ventured.

 

_ Why are we slowing down?  _ Azantys’ head peered through the flaps of his bag curiously. Lyarra coaxed his head back down. The Riverlands had more caravans and traders on their roads than the North and she didn’t want to risk anyone seeing him, even this far from the main road.

 

_ ‘We will be approaching the Trident soon. It is where… my father died,’  _ Lyarra answered. Azantys sent her a flood of warm feelings and reassurance as his head duck down. He appeared a moment later with a thin flower in his jaws. It was a little battered from the road but within the grasp of its self-declared protector.  _ ‘Thank you for carrying this for me, little one.’ _

 

_ Can you tell me more about where we are? _

 

_ ‘We are in the Riverlands, one of the Seven Kingdoms in Westeros. It's the smallest one for landmass but of mid-wealth due to its extensive trade networks. There is a myth here that all of the waters in Westeros cross at the Riverlands and there one can find the springs of eternal youth.’ _

 

_ Why would you want that? I can’t wait to grow up and fly. _

 

_ ‘But you would only grow stronger and fiercer with age, little one. For humans, it is preferable to be young and beautiful though not as young as you are now.’ _

 

The dragon cocked his head to the side and she could view him contemplating the idea from the corner of his eye.  _ Who are those humans? _

 

_ ‘Stay down, little one. Should anyone see you, they would take you away from me,’ _ Lyarra warned briefly. ‘ _ Those are the Begging Brothers, members of the Faith of the Seven, which is the dominant religion south of the Neck. They move from town to town, offering blessings and healing in exchange for food, shelter and alms for the poor. They haven’t the kindest views of dragons, Azantys. _ ’

 

Azantys held a delightful curiosity about him, one that reminded Lyarra of Bran and that expressed itself through questions regarding anything that passed his eyes. The Snow found herself distracted from her melancholy in attempting to answer all of them. She was a voracious reader but even found herself stumped once or twice.

 

_ ‘I don’t know why the helmsmen don’t sand their roofs. It would limit the spread of flames but perhaps they don’t want grains of sand to fall through the cracks?’ _

 

It was their final exchange before Lyarra was forced to hush the young dragon. This part of the Kingsroad led to the Crossroads Inn, one of the most heavily traversed areas in Westeros. The stench of the road was growing even stronger now, stale air barely able to account for the press of bodies moving forward. Lyarra saw all sorts of people passing by her: merchants, sellswords, farmers, craftsmen and even the odd knight. She kept her head ducked down and slowly guided Fireheart forward, understanding for the first time the futility of her disguise. She had worn a servant’s dress to make herself less noticeable but has a fine, castle-raised horse as her steed. 

 

_ ‘Fireheart will have to be exchanged for a lesser horse or a mule at the earliest opportunity,’  _ Lyarra acknowledged. She felt saddened by the loss but knew that the added coin would be a boon. 

 

_ Will we stay here, Lyaa? _

 

_ ‘No, this inn will be too crowded,’ _ she sent back. ‘ _ We shall pass it but you must be stone still, little one. We cannot allow them to see you.’ _

 

The tension roiled in her stomach, joined by a sour-tasting fear that was not her own, and Lyarra hated it. The dark-haired girl hated that she was forced to flee her home under darkness, making her little sister cry in the process, to save her family from the king’s sword. She hated that a newborn as clever and curious and _ innocent _ as Azantys had lived in fear from the day he hatched of a madman hunting him for the crime of being a dragon. She hated that she was helpless to prevent all this.

 

‘ _ Is this how Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen feel, living each day wondering if it would be their last?  _ ’

 

What dreaded tension for two children, one younger than her and another a mere eight namedays older, to bear. Had she been forced into the same trials, been hungry and alone and dismissed by the  world, then Lyarra feared she would have broken.

 

Even the dark-haired girl’s disquiet could not lessen her interest in the building before her. The Crossroads Inn lay on lands formerly belonging to House Darry and it was the most impressive structure of its name that Lyarra had seen yet. It was three stories tall, with turrets made of white stone and blue tile, and accompanied by its own stable and bell tower. She could see a bed of reeds from where the southernmost wall was raised and faded blue paint proclaiming it to be the finest inn in the Riverlands. 

 

Lyarra had no intention to stay for the night but nudged her horse off the main one and into a beaten track of dirt leading up the inn. She dismounted near the door and led the brown mare towards the stables, warily keeping one hand on her coin pouch. The dark-haired girl had never done this before- noblewomen weren’t expected to handle business transactions, bastard or otherwise- but she had seen Robb do so once. 

 

_ ‘They do not know that I am a woman, _ ’ Lyarra reminded herself. She threw her shoulders back and attempted to look manly and confident. Or at least not like a young woman shaking in her boots.  _ ‘I am… Lyle Snow, bastard son of House Cerwyn, banished from home by my father’s wife to make something of myself. There. That is not too far from the truth that I shall forget it.’ _

 

Lyle Snow hadn’t anything to hide. He certainly wasn’t keeping a huddled dragon in his saddlebag. He knew how to hunt and fight and barter with tradesmen. He hadn’t choked on his first sip of ale from his brother’s tankard and he knew exactly what Theon Greyjoy did in a brothel. Yes, he was Lyle, not Lyarra, and he could absolutely do this.

 

“Mister, do you needs me to take your horse?” A young boy, at least ten namedays of age, wearing worn but clean clothes, inquired.

 

Lyarra yelped and practically jumped out of her boots. 

 

“Mister?” The boy repeated, looking at her oddly.

 

“No!” Lyarra said loudly. She paused and tried to lower her tone, so her voice sounded like one a boy named Lyle would use. “No, thank you. I am Lyle Snow and I’m looking to sell my horse. Do you know of anyone who would like to buy a mare or trade it for another horse or mule?”

 

“No, Mister. I could ask Mistress Masha if she knows of anyone?” Lyarra nodded mutely. The boy didn’t move though, looking at her expectantly until it suddenly occurred to her to look through her coin pouch. She fished out a copper star and passed it to him. He accepted it with a wide grin and scampered off, as she mentally groaned at not offering a half-penny instead.

 

Her mental beratement ended when a woman generously endowed around her waist bustled out. She had scraggly straw-colored hair and a well-tended dress of inferior fabric than Lyarra was accustomed to. The woman offered a smile as she came closer, her blood-red teeth indicative of a sourleaf habit. 

 

“I am Masha Heddle, the Mistress of this Inn. What can I do for you, m’lord?” 

 

“I am no lord, Mistress Hasaha. I am a Snow,” Lyarra protested.

 

“Pardon, Mister, but your horse is as fine as any lord’s son, I reckon,” Masha chuckled. “What’s a boy like you doing out of your father’s castle, may I ask?”

 

“I am traveling south to become a Master on my Lord Father’s recommendation, Mistress. I was seeking to sell my horse here for some extra coin. She is a fine mare, too fine for my future position.”

 

The woman eyed the horse speculatively and hummed under breath. “A fine horse, indeed. But I have not the coin to purchase one such horse with me now. It is planting season and I’ve already spent my coin on seed and soil.”

 

Not yet discouraged, she pressed on. “A trade then? I’m looking for another horse of lesser quality. Twelve silver stags and a healthy horse will be a good trade for this mare.”

 

“Twelve silver stags? I am not the King, m’lord!”

 

“No, you are the owner of the finest inn in the Riverlands,” Lyarra teased, earning a smile from the older woman. “This one is a good and gentle mare still into her breeding age.”

 

“Yes, yes but a future colt won’t cover the price now. Five silvers and I will give you a stay at my inn.”

 

“Forgive me, Mistress but I don’t plan to stay for the night. Ten silvers and a week’s feed is my price.”

 

They negotiated for a little longer and Lyarra got her week’s worth of grain but lost two silvers in the process. At the end, Mistress Masha led her into the stables and introduced her to Cloudy, a calm and respectable grey if not one bred for a lord’s steed. 

 

“Do not burden yourself with moving my bags, Mistress,” Lyarra moved swiftly to get ahold of Azantys saddlebag before the older woman could. ‘ _ Stay very, very still, little one. We will be out soon. _ ’

 

Mistress Masha appeared not to notice. “A shame you’ll be taking on the Maester’s chains. I would’ve liked my daughters to meet a good, fine boy like you.”

 

Lyarra paled. “Ah, thank you, Mistress. If they are as shrewd as their mother, than it is my loss.”

 

The woman chuckled. “You say the sweetest things, child. Now, wait here while I fetch the silvers.”

 

Mistress Masha bustled off and returned a moment later, ladled with a hand clenching eight silver stags and a lemon cake that she pressed to his hand. She waved off Lyarra’s protests and proceeded to fill her empty saddlebag up to the brim with grain. As she did so, the dark-haired girl broke off a part of her treat and snuck it to Azantys. After she had moved her bridle and saddle to Cloudy, Lyarra bid the kind woman a heartfelt goodbye.

 

_ What will we do now? _

 

_ ‘We shall find some more flowers to fill our bouquet and then we shall ride down to the Ruby Ford.’ _

 

The dark-haired girl had more time to select flowers for her father than her mother and took great care to do so. Lyarra’s bouquet soon included a mishmash of violet asters, crimson cardinals, pinkish fireweed, white yarrows, blue irises, and more amongst the single white starwort that Azantys gently added. It was a riot of color, not particularly elegant or princely, but brimming with life and vigor.

 

There wasn’t any particular location marked out for the Silver Prince’s demise but Lyarra chose the mouth of the river nonetheless. It was an abandoned area of the river, surrounded by a copse of trees, but Azantys had been warned enough that he rested within the saddlebag nonetheless. The dark-haired girl gently placed the bouquet right where the water was lapping at the rich black soil, knowing that the blooms would be carried away when the rain next flooded the river. With the sunlight glimmering off of the deep blue waters, the sounds of nature around her and the scent of wildflowers and fresh soil, the area seemed to peaceful to be where a man was slain.

 

Her heart ached for a man she could not know and had not mourned… what could be expected of she, that prided herself as a daughter but had never even met the man that was her father? 

 

_ ‘Who are you, Rhaegar Targaryen? _ ’ Lyarra wondered.  _ ‘What have you left to this world but two children who would never know their father? What would you see in your shewolf daughter with her dragon dreams and violet eyes? Would you be as happy with Azantys’ hatching as I had been?’ _

 

Absently, her hand went down and brushed the water, fingers dipping beneath the little waves. The world around her abruptly disappeared.

 

_ A man in pitch-black armor and a red cape was riding a massive war steed across the battlefield. His helmet was fashioned as a dragon’s mask with impractically long and inaccurately batlike ears. Though his face and hair was disguised, Lyarra’s instincts and the ruby-forged three-headed dragon sigil on his chestplate marked him as the Silver Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. _

 

_ He was riding to the center of a field of men, all scrambling backwards to form a rough circle of order in the chaos of battle. There waited a man on a chestnut brown steed, torn yellow cloth of House Baratheon’s rearing stag on his body and a massive warhammer in his hand.  _ His _ helmet had two antlers fashioned out of lacquered chestnut wood rising from it.  _

 

_ The Snow child was seized by a sudden desire to reach out and grab both of those ridiculous helmets and use them to drag the men down to the melee. Why did either allow such a tactical disadvantage in their armor to exist, especially one that appeared as ridiculous as it did? _

 

_ Lyarra raised a hand to do such that but was distressed to find that she could not move. The men were exchanging blows now, Rhaegar moving with a swift and sudden grace while his opponent weathered his attacks like an immovable mountain. Her heart beat more rapidly, voice screaming to the man in black to run, run,  _ run away _ , he’ll kill you, please, run! Her words were drowned in the fury of the battlefield, in the rage that drowned Robert Baratheon’s eyes. She could see the healm moving, a brief flash of the pale skin around her father’s mouth, as he shouted something no one could hear.  _

 

_ She tried to move, to stop them, to save Rhaegar but her limbs were frozen and her heart was being squeezed, so tightly that she feared it to burst at any moment. Light glinted in the air and her horrified gaze followed it, the dulled metal of Robert’s warhammer shining on the Trident. Then it fell down, one mighty blow past her father’s guard and into the chest plate of the prince. Two rubies were crushed outright as the plate heaved  _ inwards, _ the sound of bones snapping reaching even her ears.  _

 

_ The battlefield quieted for a moment as a hush of amazement or horror depending on one’s standard filled the men. Rhaegar Targaryen froze, looking down at his caved chest without any emotion evident by his helm, and then he toppled down. Down, down, down and she was suddenly moving now, able to rush past the men and over to her father. Another man was screaming, older, with the white armor of the Kingsguard and moving forward to wrench the helmet off of the prince’s head. _

 

_ There was Rhaegar Targaryen, hair as pale as moonlight and eyes of an even richer violet than the asters she had offered him, looking up. He looked not towards the Kingsguard- Barristan Selmy, she thought, Barristan the Bold, Barristan the Bowed- or towards the Stag that felled him but at her. With eyes pained and yet filled with confusion and wonder, her father looked at her. _

 

_ “Visenya,” Rhaegar said softly. There was a smile on his face. “My Visenya.” _

 

Lyarra jerked her hand away and scrambled back. Fingertips still wet with water, she brought them to her face and came to a dazed realization.

 

_ ‘Oh,’  _ she thought, utterly inadequate, ‘ _ I’m crying.’ _

 

x

 

_ I wanted to add the Starks reaction to her leaving but this chapter kind of got away from me. So that will be in the next chapter, along with some more introspection and angst and revealing where Lyarra tends to go from here. Also in the next chapter will be a nameday celebration! Anyone care to guess who it'll be?  _


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

 

“Are you certain you hadn’t seen someone in Wintertown? No one at all?” 

“No, stupid! I already told you there wasn’t any strange man following us around!”

Sansa sat quietly on the chaise, head down and focused on her needle-thin row of stitches, as Bran pestered Arya again. The dark-haired girl had insisted each time, even when their father questioned her, that she knew nothing, saw nothing, and heard nothing to suspect that Lyarra would flee Winterfell. Arya didn’t know why she would leave or where she would go and couldn’t offer anything helpful to lead to her return. This had come as just as much a surprise to the youngest she-wolf as it had to everyone else in the family. 

Sansa didn’t believe her.

Perhaps it was because Sansa was familiar with Arya’s lies, typically of the dreadful mischief that the red-haired girl was most victim to. Perhaps it was because Arya didn’t seem too bothered by the disappearance of her favorite sibling, the one that shared her dark hair and uncommon eyes. Perhaps it was because the escape implied a level of preparation that couldn’t have been hidden from Arya, with how often she shadowed the older girl around the castle. Regardless of the reason, Sansa Stark was well aware that the youngest Stark girl was lying and she suspected her father knew the same.

Lord Stark was locked up in his solar now, furiously penning letters to Castle Black, to his banner men, to inns along the Kingsroad and to anyone else he could think of to find his errant daughter. When they had first learned of Lyarra’s disappearance, a full day and a half from after their father suspected her leaving, his mind had jumped to kidnapping. Sansa could only suspect one reason for the kidnapping of a bastard, for even she could begrudge Lyarra her beauty and it had drowned her heart in sympathy at first. But as the servants and guards started searching in and around Winterfell, it became clear that supplies were missing. Lyarra’s personal effects, a horse and bridle, food to last a fortnight’s journey, bedrolls, blankets and more all pointed to a willing escape.

At the news of his eldest daughter willingly leaving Winterfell, Ned Stark had done something she had never seen her father do before. He had fallen to his seat, almost all anger and worry leaving him in one brief moment, and put his face into his hands. Sansa had been stunned to see the shoulders of the strongest man she knew in the world start to shake and, when Robb had hesitantly placed one hand on him, the face that rose had streaks of tears running down. 

“I’ve failed her. Gods, I promised to keep her daughter safe and I have  _ failed  _ her,” was all her father said. Even her mother hadn’t gotten anything more out of him, as she pulled him to his feet and led him past the shocked group of children and servants. Lady Catelyn Stark’s face had been so pale and stony at the moment that all Sansa could think was that she must be chiseled from marble stone.

The rest of the Stark children had coped in their own ways. Robb had been panicked, insisting that Lyarra was making a mistake in a sudden moment of madness and needed someone to bring her home. He had been fully prepared to saddle a horse and ride down south himself before their mother put a stop to any such plans. Bran had refused to believe that their sister would leave of her own accord and still insisted that someone- undoubtedly with the worst of intentions- had kidnapped her. Rickon didn’t know the details of what occurred but was upset by his family’s distress. He had demanded to see Lyarra last night and it was all Sansa could do to distract him with a sweet. Arya had simply become far too quiet. Even Theon appeared agitated by the loss.

Sansa did not know how to feel. For all of her life, Lyarra had simply been there, a spectre to remind the castle of a woman who was not her mother. She had been beautiful and brilliant and it had been so  _ easy _ to hate her, the bastard that wielded a blade with near as much skill as Robb and a needle with near as much skill as herself. Lyarra was the one that could cause havoc beside Arya one moment and curtsy to besotten noble boys beside Robb the next. She wasn’t as well-mannered as Sansa or as gentle or as well-behaved but she was the one Lord Stark would praise whenever she could sit still long enough for the Septa to push a needle into her hand. It was that envy that drove Sansa to feel some pleasure at the loss.

Yet Sansa had not always been distant from Lyarra. When she was a child, Lyarra was her beloved older sister, a model that would protect her from Robb’s teasing and play dolls with her. She had delightedly learnt to style hair on her longsuffering sister’s curls and had badgered her into more than one repeat of Jonquil and Florian’s tale. The red-haired girl remembered Lyarra’s melodic voice, high and clear, as she sang her to sleep. Sansa had adored her but she had adored her mother more and, when she learnt of the word ‘bastard’ and the shame it brought, her ideal of a proper lady more too. She slowly grew distant from Lyarra and while the dark-haired girl had been upset, she had not pursued Sansa or her barbed tongue for long after.

By then, their youngest sister had become the bastard’s constant companion. Sansa could not remember a time when Lyarra had not doted on Arya, dark-haired and silver-eyed as they both were, and when Arya had not toddled after her sister’s shadow. They had played games unlike the ones Sansa had played, of battles and valor rather than princesses and romance, and Sansa soon learned that their relationship was dissimilar too. The praise Arya was offered was so different to her own.

Sansa was pretty and sweet and obedient; Arya was clever and brave and fierce. Sansa’s red hair was lovely and destined to draw the eye of every lord she would meet. Arya was a true winter child, Stark blood evident across every pane of skin and the mirror-self of her older sister, a girl whose beauty was the wonder of a summer’s snowfall. Sansa would learn to embroider, dance and smile, all skills necessary for a noble daughter. Arya would sneak away to learn history and sums at their sister’s knee, ride horses and practice with a tourney sword. There was a burning truth there.

Lyarra loved all of her half-siblings but she  _ respected _ Robb and Arya. And while the former was her elder brother and the Heir to Winterfell, Sansa could not forget that the latter was younger than her. Lyarra teased Arya of being Nymeria reborn and perhaps it was a jape but it was one followed by lessons and encouragement and faith that Sansa had never received. Arya didn’t listen to their mother enough to shun the Bastard of Winterfell but even if she did, Sansa thought that Lyarra would fight tooth and nail to change her sister’s mind. Lyarra would have done for Arya what she had not for her.

In the end, what had hurt the most was knowing that Sansa Stark hadn’t been worth fighting for.

‘ _ Was it fair to expect Lyarra to mend the bridges I’ve burnt? _ ’ Sansa mused, fingers tugging and unfurling a stray thread of scarlet for the white wolf’s eyes. The colors had simply felt right to her. ‘ _ No but if I was capable of being wise or brave, then I wouldn’t have grown distant from her in the first place. I may not have Robb’s honor or Arya’s courage or even Bran’s spirit but I’m a Stark too. If-  _ when _ \- Lyarra returns, I will express my regret to her. _ ’

_ ‘Please come back home, Sister. Your family misses you.’ _

x

When Lyarra had sufficiently composed herself after her vision ended, she raised her hand up and angrily brushed aside any tears. That man, that  _ monster _ , hadn’t even the decency to offer his opponent a clean death. Rhaegar Targaryen’s chest had been caved in but he had still been breathing when he toppled backwards, head sinking into the Trident and lungs filling with water as Robert Baratheon walked away. The man that had stepped over the bloodied, dagger-torn body of her half-sister on his way to power had left her father to suffer so ignobly. 

_ ‘From a King that would burn his enemies to death to a King that would drown them,’  _ Lyarra thought derisively. _ ‘Yes, the war has done  _ so much _ to change the nature of the Iron Throne.’  _

**_ Is anyone there, Lyaa?  _ **

_ ‘No, my dear one, there is none to see you.’  _ The dark-haired girl knew her words reckless, yet laid compliantly on the ground, as Azantys’ slipped out of the saddlebag. His wings beat furiously before he glided awkwardly into her chest, claws pulling but not tearing at her clothes. Soon they would grow too sharp and the dragon too large for this to occur. Lyarra selfishly clung to his comfort.

**_ You were gone, Lyaa.  _ ** The dragon’s neck craned up to peer into her eyes.  **_ I could hear your heartbeat and smell your scent but you were not here. _ **

_ ‘A trait of dragon dreams that we hadn’t known then,’ _ the Snow dismissed. She gathered all of the grief inside her and wrapped it within the foreign emotions present- Azantys’ concern and curiosity and boundless affection for her.  _ ‘They showed my father’s death.’ _

It was not a title that Lyarra was comfortable with but how could she deny Rhaegar this, when his dying breath spoke her name with such wonder? 

**_ The one from the family of dragonriders? How did he look? _ **

_ ‘Heartbreaking.’  _ She pushed a man of beauty and tragedy to the forefront and Azantys plucked the image from her mind.  _ ‘A little foolish for he dressed more a symbol than a warrior.’ _

**_ His eyes are darker than yours and his hair fairer but you smile the same way. _ **

_ ‘Do I?’  _ Lyarra’s lips tugged upwards as she brushed her hand over the ridges of his spine.

Azantys’ fidgeted and she felt a ticklish sensation in her own mind.  **_ Softly and slowly as though the pleasure would be taken away from you, if you were too happy. _ **

_ ‘I would fight for my happiness then,’ _ Lyarra told him.  _ ‘I would fight for you.’ _

**_ Do I make you happy then? _ **

She heard the hesitance in her dragon’s mind and wondered at the cause. Placing a small kiss on his head, she assured him. ‘ _ The greatest blessing that the Gods have ever given was to bond to you.  _ You _ are my happiness and even having fled Winterfell, even if we live in this danger for the rest of my natural life, I will _ never _ regret finding you. Until the end of my days, I will love you. The Gods may have mercy for those who seek to take you away from me but I will not. _ ’

**_ I am the last dragon in this world and there exist many who seek to kill me. But when you are here, I do not feel scared or alone. You make me happy and I will fight for that happiness but I will also fight so that you don’t need to smile so softly or slowly anymore. One day, we will fly together and your smile will be bright and strong and fearless and if any try to steal that smile away, I will drown them in fire. _ **

Azantys leaned up to lick her cheek.  **_ For you, I would drown the Stag King in fire too. _ **

Lyarra stared at the dusk-toned dragon and felt a detached, an almost triumphant, acknowledgement. She wondered if this was the first cause of House Targaryen’s downfall, this heady confidence in power that was not her own to command but would obey her desire nonetheless. Azantys was barely more than a newborn, one who curled easily in her lap and begged for treats every morning, but there was promise in his smoky coughs and blunted claws. In this creature of magic, there was the promise of  _ fire and blood,  _ of the power that helped one man and his sister-wives conquer seven kingdoms. There was a lustful danger in those thoughts that flitted easily from being hunted to being the hunter.

‘ _ Aegon Targaryen conquered and Torrhen Stark knelt.’  _ The words sounded dazed in her own mind. ‘ _ I do not know the desires of one but my mother’s ancestor did so for the love of his people. This is the honor that I was raised with and the honor that any who wield such power must know. _ ’

“Azantys, you must make a promise to me,” Lyarra spoke aloud. The ice in her veins smothered the fire in her heart. The words were too heavy to be conveyed by her mind alone. 

**_ A promise?  _ ** Her precocious familiar asked suspiciously. Then, with the innate trust that had led Arya to make her own vow, he nodded. 

“Promise me that you will never kill for the pleasure of it,” the dark-haired girl whispered, “Swear that your flames and claws will be used to protect yourself and those you love alone.”

The words were simple and offered out of love, even if the exasperation rising in her proved that the dragon thought them unnecessary.  **_ I promise. _ **

“Should I die, you will never kill an innocent in revenge for me,” Lyarra stated the next part fiercely.

This caused greater hesitation but at those pleading lavender eyes, Azantys bowed.  **_ I promise. _ **

“And,” the Snow child finished quietly. “If I order otherwise, you will refuse to obey me.”

There was knowledge of madness to those amber eyes now and a starburst of pride.  **_ I promise. _ **

_ ‘Then let us find a suitable place to rest and retire for the day,’ _ Lyarra felt suddenly exhausted. ‘ _ I will need to scout around for news tomorrow. Tonight… tonight, I shall tell you the story of Torrhen Stark, the last King of Winter. _ ’

x 

“Do you know how to chop firewood, boy?” Caelum, Steward of the House of Darry, demanded, as he looked critically at the fresh-faced child. The boy had milk-white skin, cloth-soft hands and didn’t look like he had ever worked a day before in his life.

“No, Steward Caelum but I am a quick learner and a hard worker.” The boy’s voice was soft too, almost girlish even. The Steward would bet any number of coins that he was a noble boy run away from home for some imagined slight. If he was lucky, his Lord Father would come for him soon and if he was not, he would learn how harsh the world could be outside of his keep.

“Hmph, at least you’re polite,” Caelum grunted. He needed extra help for the little lord’s nameday else he would have sent the boy away. “One groat a day and you’ll start with the firewood. Rolan, you’ll be the one in charge of him.”

“Yes, Steward Caelum.” A boy with fire red hair not uncommon to the Riverlands and particularly large ears gestured him forward. As the Steward turned to issue more orders, Lyarra released her breath. “So what do I call you?”

“Lyle,” she answered. “Have you worked in the castle long?”

“All my life. My Ma’s a seamstress for House Darry.” Rolan led him away from the castle and down a beaten path. “There’s some trees down there for us to chop. We need the extra firewood for the stoves today.”

“Oh? Is there a feast coming up?” Lyarra’s heartbeat picked up when Rolan looked at her oddly.

“Ain’t it obvious? Lord Raymun’s son, Lyman, is having his third nameday tomorrow!”

“Ah, I’ve forgotten about that.” Lyle paused for a moment and ventured. “No tourney then?”

“Nah, they wouldn’t waste the coin for a single nameday,” Rolan said, disappointment evident in his features. “My Ma said that used to hold grand ones ‘fore the war. When they had all their land.”

“Shame they lost so much since the Riverlands were on the winning side.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Rolan shook his head. “Lord Tully maybe fought for the rebels but Lord Raymun’s father was a loyalist. Til they killed him for it anyway.”

‘ _ House Darry must be one of the ones Lady Stark’s father couldn’t control, _ ’ Lyarra concluded. She had read of loyalist Houses in accounts of the war but hadn’t known any by name. There had been a jape from an inebriated lord once about how Lord Stark was promised thirty thousand men for his trout bride but snared less than twenty in his marriage net. It had involved a dirty limerick that Theon had repeated and earned a rare switching for.

“Lord Raymun lost his father to the war?” Lyarra questioned.

“Aye, a father, three brothers, and who knows how many cousins,” Rolan said. His voice thrummed with indignation on behalf of his lord and Lyarra thought that this man must be kind and true to his servants, as Lord Stark was. “Ser Jonothor Darry was of the Kingsguard. He stayed true to his vows and fell beside the Silver Prince at the Trident. Ser Willem Darry smuggled the Queen and her children out to Dragonstone and then later, across the Narrow Sea.”

“These are the men who fought for the Mad King?”

Rolan snorted. “The Mad King? Who’d have fought for him? Nay, they fought for their Prince.”

_ ‘They fought for my father. They  _ died _ for my father, _ ’ Lyarra felt briefly ill. Fortunately, they had arrived by the trees and Rolan put an axe to her hand. Her first swings were clumsy and slow but soon she fell into a pattern. The older boy leaned across another trunk to ‘supervise’ her but she did not mind his laziness. His words were a front of information and he liked the sound of his own voice.

“Tell me the names of Lord Raymun’s brothers and father.”

She memorized them-  _ Laymund, Morgan, Nagel, Torallen _ \- and Ser Jonothor and Ser Willem and silently promised to light a candle for each. It was a tradition of the Seven that would befit their beliefs. Rolan continued to speak and she listened: of how House Darry lost half their land and most of their wealth to the rebels, of the unfair taxes plied on them even now from Lord Tully and of the dragon banners in the inner keep of the castle and family rooms, right next to banners of the Darry plow and farmer. Lyarra listened quietly as Rolan described little Lord Lyman’s fear of storms and love of apple cakes and penchant for sleeping during evening prayers. and absorbed every detail. These men had sworn their loyalty to the Silver Prince; her father may be dead but she had a duty to honor their sacrifice, even on the run. 

It was only when Rolan had exhausted his veritable well of knowledge of House Darry and Lyarra had finished chopping the wood, that she asked a different question.

“Have there been any ravens from Riverrun lately?”

x

 

_ I’ve decided to bold the words spoken by the dragons to make them easier to distinguish from Lyarra speaking mentally. This is also the last scene in the Riverlands. The story will be moving at a faster pace now and while I’ll have a few callbacks to House Stark, this will become more political. This may be an interim chapter but it distinguished several important points, not least of which is Lyarra's realization that there are men and women who genuinely loved the dragons and that she'll soon have a lot of power in her hands and must learn to wisely apply it. _

_ In regards to the last chapter, when Lyarra saw her father, she was using her greenseer ability to temporarily travel to the past, like Bran did with Aerys and Hodor. Rhaegar saw her and had a more peaceful death, since he's a well-read man that knew of his wife's bloodline and now has proof of his youngest child's survival. Lyarra doesn't know that she used her greenseer ability though, attributing all of her magical talents to her father's side.  _


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

 

_ ‘The sea is an expanse of blue utterly without end,’  _ Lyarra marvelled, focusing on the image so that Azantys, currently within the newly purchased leather satchel, could pluck it from her mind. ‘ _ It’s depth inspires fear for the danger than it may hold and wonder for its treasures. At the furthest that my eyes allow, it meets the fallen sky and appears to herald the end of the known world. _ ’

 

**_We shall fly past those limits and find the truth for ourselves._ **

 

_ ‘Yes, little one, we shall. And perhaps I shall write books like the traveller, Lomas Longstrider. All of the wonders of the world that he had never seen.’ _

 

**_Will you put this into your next letter?_ **

 

_ ‘I think I will, though Theon will boast of how he knew of the ocean’s bounty before any of us greenlander Starks.’  _ Lyarra’s lips quirked upwards as she considered how her youngest sister would react to the braggart. ‘ _ I hope they were not too sad when they learnt that I was gone. _ ’

 

**_Do you not want them to miss you?_ **

 

‘ _ I am certain of their affection for me, so all I desire is that their love not bring them to tears.’  _

 

**_I will never leave you but if I do, you must promise to cry for me._ **

 

_ ‘Should you leave, Azantys, then I will run after you.’  _

 

The dark-haired girl could feel the consideration the young fire lizard put into those words before a starburst of happiness not her own bloomed in her chest.  **_That is better than crying._ **

 

She continued to describe the details of their surroundings before the baby dragon decided himself bored and demanded a treat instead. Lyarra withheld it until a snuffled ‘please’ was added and then gifted him with two strips of cold bacon. Even should she be the only person for Azantys to converse with, she expected a modicum of manners from her familiar.

 

This was Lyarra Snow’s first time on a ship, minor fishing vessel of dubious scent though it may be. Over the last sennight, they had managed to ride east to Maidenpool and charter a ride at the harbor there. The town itself had been far larger than Wintertown and Lyarra had explored it with genuine enthusiasm. There was Jonquil’s Tower where the fool knight had supposedly spied on the maiden and her sisters. It had been Sansa’s favorite song though the bastard girl was never entirely comfortable with the story. The markets had held goods from Pentos and Braavos brought in from the Narrow Sea. She had bought only her bag there but it was interesting to see anyway. Lyarra had also dropped a few coppers for two sticks of crabs though; she had never tried the meat before but it was delicious! Azantys had quite liked it and she purchased another stick soon after for him.

 

Those explorations had lasted only a few hours after the short time spent haggling her horse’s sale. The silver earned there had gone directly to the captain of the ship and now she was on the bow, admiring the sun, waves, and foam as a salty breeze ran through her hair. It had started to grow a bit, becoming more of a shaggy cut similar to Bran’s, and Lyarra allowed it to. Another few hours of sailing and she would land in Driftmark, where she would either be offered shelter by House Velaryon or lose her head. And if the latter should occur, why should Lyarra care for her hair?

 

Though her thoughts were pessimistic, there was a fledgling hope in her heart. Monford Velaryon, the current Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark, was an older friend of Rhaegar Targaryen, having spent a great deal of time in the courts while his father was Master of Ships. He had offered shelter and ships to Queen Rhaella and her second son, Viserys, when the two needed to flee Dragonstone. His House had been steadfast in their loyalty from the earliest that Aegon the Conqueror reigned and the blood of Old Valyria ran through his veins.

 

Perhaps most importantly, there would be no other House in Westeros that would honor a dragon the way House Velaryon would.

 

_ ‘Unless they have already given their loyalty to Lord Stannis, _ ’ Lyarra’s thoughts crept back up. She carefully tugged at her cloak, checking that the hood had her dark brown hair and Stark features mostly hidden, before resisting the urge to flee her course. The Snow child knew this to be the most reasonable option for her. She knew not where Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen were and while she could track Aegon down, Lyarra lacked the coin for a trip to Essos. And that concluded her list of Targaryens left in this world, depressingly short as it was.

 

Whispering those reassurances to herself, Lyarra focused on the island that was rapidly coming into view. She had heard the mountain shaped like a ship but had never quite believed it until it unfolded before her eyes, jagged stone forming an ever-sharper scaled pattern of the leviathan. A winding path led upwards to the heavens, as serpentine as the white seahorses emblazoned on sky blue banners. Hints of their historical allegiance, the dragon-bowed arch welcoming them into the cove and the finely crafted crimson tiles marking the path, were open to her. And the people…

 

Hair of the palest gold or the brightest silver. Eyes more violet than blue and occasionally touched amethyst or lilac. Figures slimmer than the North, most men shaved or with neatly trimmed hair. Women baring more skin than she was familiar with, porcelain pale despite the sun beating down.

 

This was the blood of Old Valyria. This was  _ her _ blood. Lyarra acknowledged this and hoped that Lord Monford Velaryon would as well.

 

x

 

“What is your impression of him?” Lord Monford Velaryon looked over from his paperwork towards the door where his bastard half-brother entered. He often had Aurane form an impression of powerful or strange visitors to Driftmark. The man was perceptive and loyal and nobles tended to underestimate by habit due to his baseborn status.

 

“ _ She,”  _ Aurane stressed, smirking, “Does have the look of the First Men. She has the accent and speaking patterns of a noblewoman from the North. I’m willing to believe her claims of being a Stark.”

 

“A  _ woman _ ?” Monford repeated in disbelief. “Are you certain?”

 

“Our guest may be a man with an appreciation for his own sex but I doubt it,” Aurane looked briefly impressed. “There was certainly a moment where she was taken aback by my appearance but she recovered quickly. I doubt I will be able to discomfort her further without actively drawing her in and I would prefer not to do that. She is… well, I  _ think  _ she’s ten-and-five or younger.”

 

“An emissary from the North she is not then.”

 

“That claim was outlandish from the beginning, Brother. She likely intended the ruse to get her past the guards outside and into a meeting with you.”

 

“I see,” Monford mulled over that. “A young noblewoman dressed as a man, hailing from the North and lying for an audience with the Lord of Driftmark. It seems a bad jape.”

 

“Do you intend to turn her away?” Aurane’s disappointment was evident. This was a curiosity and the fair man had always a weakness for such.

 

_ ‘The nine lives of a cat you may have, Brother but this recklessness shall inflict wounds that even you cannot shake off one day,’ _ Monford internally sighed. “I will meet with her and you may accompany me. Have you anything else to share?”

 

“Hmm, well she did not react when I gave her my name,” Aurane reported. “The guards reported that she came from the outer pathway, likely from an inn within the town and that was why she carried one leather satchel with her. She holds it carefully- there is something valuable there, I would wager- and she is brimming with nerves. I wouldn’t be surprised if her lord father wasn’t aware of this visit.”

 

“Neither would I.” Monford rose to his feet and gestured his brother onwards. The younger man practically skipped his way to the latest object of his interest, currently placed in a sitting room designed in shades of blue and green. It was meant to soothe the spirits during tense introductions. Monford doubted that would be the case here.

 

The visitor was sitting in one of the plush chaises imported from Dorne, the slim figure practically swallowed by the leather. Upon her lap- and with a closer look and disregard of dress, the visitor was definitely female- lay a medium-sized satchel braced close to her chest. The shirt and trousers were of common ware, perhaps fine enough to be worn by the servants of a wealthy noble house and covered a figure that could generously be given ten-and-five namedays. Messy, chin-length, dark brown hair drew attention away from the delicate bone structure and pale symmetrical features. Further proof of Valyrian blood was evident in her eyes, which were a shade of purple that even Monford had never seen before. Light enough to be of lavender with the silvery sheen found occasionally in the blood of the First Men, they were uncommon, understated and, as Aurane noted, unnerved. 

 

Monford sketched a simple bow for the anxious young woman. “Monford Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark.”

 

The girl’s eyes darted around the room, though it contained only himself, Aurane and a single, trusted guard. Her pink tongue darted out to brush over bow-shaped lips and her hands clenched into fists. She stood up and shakily offered her own bow. A wise choice, Monford thought, for her trousers would merely make a curtsy look foolish.

 

“Visenya Targaryen, youngest child of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen by Princess Lyanna Stark.”

 

Monford’s heart stopped. His blood burned and his eyes narrowed. “ _ What? _ ” he snarled.

 

x 

 

The second that the word was spit from Lord Monford’s mouth, lashed out with repressed pain and grief, Lyarra thought that she had made a terrible mistake. House Velaryon’s allegiance  _ had _ shifted to the Baratheons, the House responsible for the murder of Rhaegar, Elia and Rhaenys and her life, and Azantys’ by extension, was now forfeit. Then her mind reasserts itself, Azantys’ concern anchoring her to the present as the dark-haired girl observes the disbelief in that voice.

 

“How dare you…?” The lord can barely voice the words for the fury he holds back. “How  _ dare _ you claim to be Rhaegar’s child?”

 

The anger is mirrored on the face of his brother and guard, both fair-haired and violet-eyed though the former bares a startling resemblance to Aegon, as they stand there. She carefully slides the satchel off her lap and slowly,  _ painstakingly _ slowly, slides a hand into the uppermost bag. Keeping an eye on the men for a sudden show of steel, Lyarra draws the letters out. 

 

“I have proof, my lord. Letters in my Mother’s hand, my Uncle Benjen Stark’s and my Father,” she stumbles over the title, even now. “The first is from my Mother relating her handfasting beneath the weirwood tree on the Isle of Faces. Princess Elia was there to give her away. My Uncle Benjen’s relate news of the war, of my impending birth and of his request to flee northward rather than to Dorne. The last informs House Stark of the bridal price of Lyanna Stark and the dowry of Visenya Targaryen placed in the Iron Bank.”

 

Lyarra watches them, watches disbelief and desire war on Lord Monford’s face, the trembling of the guardsman, the hawk-eye focus of Aurane Waters and she keeps the letters in her grasp. “May I?”

 

Lord Monford doesn’t even know the request she is voicing but he nods regardless. His eyes, a fledgling hope growing there, are centered on the parchment in her hand. Lyarra walks to the hearth instead and, keeping eyes steadily on the man at the center of the room, extends the hand not holding the letters.

 

“Don’t-” Aurane Waters jerks forward, suddenly panicked. “Your hand…”

 

“Fire cannot harm a dragon,” the dark-haired girl assures him. She removes her hand from it soon after, uncomfortable with distressing a man who looks so similar to Rhaegar and Aegon, and presents it to him. To the wordless protest of Monford, Aurane comes closer and kneels beside her. He takes her hand with such gentleness, reverence so evident in his gaze, that Lyarra’s cheeks burn red.

 

“Your skin is unburnt.” Aurane’s face breaks into a radiant smile and in the light of the fire, he looks almost as beautiful as Aegon is in her dreams. “Monford, her skin  _ doesn't  _ burn.”

 

The guardsman has paled enough for her to be seriously concerned for his health but Lyarra’s attention isn’t there. It’s focused on Monford Velaryon, a man whose silver hair is streaked with grey and whose lined violet eyes are filled with tears, as he stares at her.

 

“Come here. Let me see you,” Monford croaks and Lyarra stands to obey him. She thinks that he may be willing to read the papers now but he waves them off. Instead Lyarra finds his hand tipping her head upwards, his gaze studying her face almost hungrily. “Rhaegar’s chin-  _ Rhaella’s _ chin- and the curve of his ears. The nose, you share this with Aerys and Jaehaerys before him. The shape of your eyes is Rhaella’s too and the dip in the hollow of your throat. Even those silver eyes are touched by the violet of the dragons. Where have you _ been _ child? How could we have not found you?”

 

“My Uncle Ned found me with my mother at the Tower of Joy. He brought me to Winterfell and raised me in secret alongside my cousins. I was named Lyarra Snow-“

 

Monford’s gaze sharpened briefly. “The bastard. You were his Dornish bastard.”

 

“Yes, my lord,” Lyarra bowed her head. “He claimed me as a bastard to protect me from the King.”

 

“But Lord Stark doesn’t know that you’re here, does he?” Monford’s eyes continued to trace her face eagerly with his eyes, even as he offers this question to her.

 

“No. No, he does not,” the dark-haired girl’s heart beats so loudly to her ears that she wonders why they do not question her for it now. “I left Winterfell, Lord Velaryon. I came to you- I had hoped for-”

 

Her pride makes it hard to push the words through her mouth but the older man’s eyes are filled with wonder and Aurane Waters still looks at her as though he would never move his gaze away. Lyarra draws on all of the northern ice in her veins, in the bluntness that the Starks were raised by, and finishes. “I need refuge.”

 

“You shall have it,” Monford Velaryon states fiercely, without another breath. “I would never turn Rhaella’s granddaughter away. You shall find shelter in my home.”

 

“Not merely for myself, Lord Velaryon.” Lyarra mentally calls out for her familiar and coaxes him into sight. Azantys peeks outward slowly, raised as he was on her litany of warnings to never allow himself to be seen. “I fled Winterfell to hide the presence of my dragon and it is for his protection, that I request asylum.”

 

Monford does not even say anything as he turns soundlessly to the chaise. Her dragon emerges, reptilian head with glittering amber eyes, dark blue and violet scales, lilac membranes to the wings and claws as sharp and black as dragonglass. It is with a sinuous grace that Azantys glides towards her and Lyarra cannot,  _ must not _ , smile for she knows how much effort he put into the action. Her knees bend a little to catch him and then she is standing there. Lyarra Snow, slim and pale and a little dirty from travel, hair shorn to a messy boy’s cut, holding a dragon and all but begging for shelter.

 

Monford Velaryon says nothing and Lyarra’s anxiety, not quite choking her throat but making it more painful to breath, moves her to babble. She doesn’t see the hope in the man’s eyes grow, joined by awe and even  _ triumph _ , at the living, breathing dragon in the arms of Rhaegar Targaryen’s daughter. 

 

“I understand that this a heavy request to make, my lord but I have no one else to turn to. I need protection for my dragon. He is too young to defend himself and I have no formal training in the sword. King Robert will  _ kill _ him if he finds out, he will kill me and there will be nothing that I could do to stop him! Please, my lord, my dragon is young, he is so small, no one will ever see us! We will not stay for long, I swear, your family will be safe from the King…” 

 

Lyarra’s words die off as Monford Velaryon falls to his knees. She looks desperately towards the guardsman, only to find him sinking to the same position, and then behind her, to Aurane, who is doing the same. “I-”

 

“All hail Her Grace, Visenya of Houses Targaryen and Stark, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm,” Monford declared, with all of the fervent belief of a man whose loyalty to his Queen will never be questioned or swayed.

 

Lyarra gapes at him. Her rising horror at the declaration is only matched by Azantys’ amusement, as she forgets her current woes in favor of her dread of the Iron Throne. She is unashamed to cradle Azantys and the letters in one hand, the dragon curling his tail around her forearm to keep his balance and using the other to grab a vest. None of Lady Catelyn’s lessons on manners and etiquette have no meaning now as she forcefully drags Monford Velaryon up, the bastard inside her cringing at how she is treating the lord.

 

“Dont-  _ don’t bow _ !” The dark-haired girl squeaks the words and Lord Monford merely smiles at her, indifferent to the handling.

 

“Your Grace-” He begins, eyes still fervid with hope and awe and  _ triumph. _

 

“We need to talk,” Lyarra tells him. At this point, even her irrefutable cynicism is certain that shelter would be offered. Thus, she allows herself to relax somewhat and gestures towards the guardsman and Aurane Waters. “But first, can you please tell them to stop kneeling?”

 

x

 

There was a time, after Sansa was born but before Arya came into this world, that the Starks held a Harvest Feast in Winterfell. It was the first open celebration the castle held since the war ended. The occasion was attended to by several of the closer Northern lords- Cerwyn, Mormont, Hornwood, Glover and others- and Ned had sat above them all, with his heir laughing from his lap. It had been a happy day but when they retired to their chambers, Ned had been pensive. He had confessed that he felt like a fraud, sitting before his brother’s liegemen, with his brother’s bride by his side and living a life that should have been Brandon’s by right of birth. Catelyn had soothed those worries and they had fallen asleep quickly thereafter, tired from the festivities and lured by warm hearths and full bellies.

 

Her mind explained those worries as Ned still being unused to people addressing him as the Lord of Winterfell and perhaps feeling guilt for surviving when Brandon had not. Catelyn did not share that concern, confident as she was in her husband’s dedication to the North and love for his family. And yet, the red-haired woman could not wonder if she was wrong. 

 

Was the position of Lord Stark a curse for Ned? Her husband was a second son, he would never have expected so grand an inheritance as Winterfell but he had had the freedom to pursue a future of his own choosing. He could become whomever he wanted to be… marry whomever he wished and Catelyn had heard of one woman he may have wished to take for a bride.

 

Lady Ashara of House Dayne. 

 

Lady Stark had not known the woman well but she had been presented at court once and Ashara Dayne had been Princess Elia’s lady-in-waiting. She had been a beauty without peer even within the court; dark brown hair and haunting violet eyes drawing the attention of all who crossed her path. Men had been infatuated with her, jostling amongst themselves to win a scrap of her approval or a rare smile. A young Catelyn Tully had been envious of her graceful manners and melodic singing voice and even then, embarrassingly pleased when the older woman praised her gown. 

 

Catelyn had left court soon after and forgotten all of Lady Ashara, until her Uncle Brynden escorted her north, an unexpected bride for an unexpected lord. She had been a stranger to Winterfell but thought to enter the nursery first, where she could put her dozing son to rest. The Tully had stumbled across her newfound husband there, Ned leaning over a crib already occupied by a babe that was not her own, by a babe that everyone had sworn him too honorable to have, by a babe with eyes shone violet-tinged silver and hair as dark as Lady Ashara’s.

 

Catelyn had demanded to know the mother’s name. Ned had refused her. Catelyn had demanded for the babe to be raised elsewhere. Ned had refused her. Catelyn had demanded for the bastard to leave the nursery that was rightfully meant to be Robb’s own. Ned had allowed this, had picked up the child with his own two arms, a child that looked so painfully Stark when her own son shared little of his father’s colouring, and informed her that she was of his blood and would be raised in Winterfell. Then he had left her to collapse into tears as he saw to the needs of Lady Ashara Dayne’s bastard.

 

Ned had never confirmed the name to her but when had he need to? Not when the servants whispered of their Quiet Wolf reaching to the heavens and plucking the brightest star in Harrenhal. Not when Lyarra Snow grew from a comely child to a beautiful young woman, hints of the heartbreaking beauty Lady Ashara possessed within her. Not when Catelyn was forced to suffer the humiliation of seeing her husband’s bastard raised alongside his trueborn children, as though she was meant to be there.

 

And to Ned Stark, she was.

 

Catelyn had told herself that it was a mistake of the past, that Ned had strayed for lust rather than love and that war had made him break his steadfast honor. Lady Ashara was dead and gone and she had no hold over her husband’s heart any longer. Lyarra Snow was born of sin and thus, inferior to any of her trueborn children. Her Septa had taught her that but in the silent moments before dawn, when Catelyn had not anyone there to lie for, she wondered if this was a falsehood. Did they claim this to all daughters of nobility, she wondered, that they would not be slighted when their husbands have children of desire with other women?

 

Was Lyarra Snow a child wanted and cherished while her own were forced upon Ned?

 

Lord Hoster Tully had bartered his loyalty to the Rebellion for his daughter’s marriages. Catelyn to Ned Stark and Lysa to Jon Arryn had purchased twenty-thousand soldiers for the Rebellion. She had met Ned one week before their wedding and the ceremony, in the Sept of Riverrun, had been hastily arranged. They had slept together a handful of times before Ned rode down to war, south to where a woman he would have married if not for duty waited.

 

Catelyn understood duty. She had been raised on the word and thus, without complaint, she had married the younger brother of the man she had loved. Ned understood the word as well; why else would he have wed a woman he barely knew? Her hand for Lord Hoster’s army secured, the young man had followed his friend to war. A little over a year later, Ned returned from Dorne with a child.

 

In the time since, Catelyn had hoped to have banished all thoughts of Ashara Dayne. She could do nothing for the woman’s bastard but she had given Ned five healthy, trueborn children. She had learned of the Northern customs and people. She became comfortable with navigating the formidable, ancient castle that was her new home. She performed her duties as Lady Stark with diligence, had fallen in love with her taciturn husband and been joyous when he loved her in turn.

 

Now, after watching Ned’s composure crumble over failing the dead, Catelyn Stark wondered if she could ever dispel the ghost of Ashara Dayne. 

 

“You knew?! You saw her leave and you didn’t do anything to stop her?” Bran’s voice had the woman hurriedly raise from her seat to the door.

 

In the hallway, she saw a defiant Arya stare her brother down. “Not my fault she didn’t want to say goodbye to you, is it?”

 

With a furious screech, Bran tackled his sister to the ground.

 

x

  
_ For the record, Lyarra’s not falling in love with the Bastard of Driftmark. It’s merely that when a man as handsome as Aurane Waters looks at you like you’re a princess, irrespective of the fact that you actually  _ are _ a princess, you’re going to be at least a little flustered. That being said, Aurane will make an excellent member of the Kingsguard one day. _


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

 

“You are aware that she doesn’t follow the Seven, yes?” Aurane asked wryly, leaning against the wall of the Sept. In response, Monford merely lit another candle to the Stranger, this time intoning the name _Rhaella Targaryen_ before it. The Bastard of Driftmark hadn’t many memories of the Queen but Monford had been half-raised by the woman after his mother died in childbed. His brother had praised her as compassionate and dutiful, gentle but with an inner strength to withstand her husband’s madness. Now her granddaughter slept in the family quarters upstairs, after a hastily arranged supper of fresh bread, smoked fish and onion soup.

 

“Sylvia will have to teach her of the Faith,” Monford sighed, standing up. “Otherwise, she’ll have the Septons breathing down her neck for the remainder of her days.”

 

Aurane merely hummed in agreement. He personally didn’t think the lessons on proper royal behavior would be taken seriously. Princess Visenya ‘Please Call Me Lyarra’ Targaryen struck him as a stubborn girl who would refuse to deviate from her mad tree-worshipping ways. To some extent, this willful behavior relieved him; Aurane had met more than his fair share of bastards without any self-worth. Any show of spirit was to be welcomed though the tree worship would make her public life difficult.

 

His good-sister’s lessons would likely focus on nurturing the pride that the princess had been willing to express. It hadn’t been much, not because she was the paragon of humility but because, as became evident during supper, Visenya simply had _no idea_ of her value. She was more than the daughter of the Silver Prince, more than the sister of an exiled King, more than a sign of a dying House’s resurgence, she was a _dragon._

 

Visenya Targaryen had hatched a living, breathing symbol of House Targaryen’s sigil. She had tamed a creature born straight from legends and nightly tales, had found two other eggs that merely awaited riders of their own. She used _dragon dreams_ to escape Winterfell, travelled south without guidance to a family that would shelter her until she was enough strong to fly on her own merit. She brought news of her brother’s existence, the outlandish claim of Prince Aegon’s existence expressed with a certainly only held by those whose visions eclipsed mortal understanding. She was dauntless before flame, eager to bare steel in her hand, willing to defend herself and all too conscious of the frightening power her familiar could wield. She was Jaehaerys’ wisdom, Daeron's foresight, Rhaella’s kindness and yet with the ice-tinged potential of being _more._

 

In short, Visenya Targaryen was completely and utterly _remarkable_ and Aurane simply couldn’t understand how she didn’t realize that.

 

Aurane hadn’t been six namedays old when the war ended but he had been old enough to remember the death of the Silver Prince. The wails of men and women alike had filled the air of Driftmark; the smallfolk had nearly rioted at the news of their beloved prince’s death. They had loved Rhaegar, the quiet, gentle harpist that sang his sad, sweet songs and always spared a kind word for any to seek his eye. Rhaegar had been valiant, had been intelligent and noble and good. He had been a true Prince, a worthy King though he never held the crown and he had left behind a son and daughter to carry his banner. Aurane did not know Aegon Targaryen but Princess Visenya was extraordinary. Had the melancholy Silver Prince accomplished nothing else in his life, his impetuous romance with a Northern shewolf had birthed a true dragon to his House.

 

“Lady Sylvia shall not have not much time to persuade Alys,” Aurane commented. The name had been selected after his elder brother had finished despairing over the mummer’s show of Lyle Snow. Monford may be more liberal than many of his fellow loyalists but he was not quite liberal enough to address his princess by a bastard boy’s name.

 

“She shall have time enough. I trust a fortnight is enough for you to ready the _Pipefish?_ ”

 

Aurane nodded. It would be more than enough time. The Princess had reported that the men had been packing fresh fruits into the _Shy Maiden’s_ hold yesterday. While other food may keep, that was proof enough that Connington planned to sail from Braavos soon. The natural course from there would be south to Pentos or east to Lorath. The winds would reveal the truth and they had enough food to pursue the ship either way. Pentos would be more useful though, as they could intercept the ship along the path and cross the Stepstones to Sunspear. Doran would be even more pleased to see Princess Elia’s son than Monford had been for Prince Rhaegar’s daughter.

 

“Will you contact Prince Doran before we reach Sunspear with the King?”

 

“No,” Monford’s gaze was everything sympathetic. “They’re in far too much pain to accept the possibility of a living nephew. Were it to be a lie, their hearts would break all over again. Neither prince will believe us until King Aegon is presented to them himself and then I expect quick support.”

 

“On the matter of the Princess…” Aurane’s words drifted off. While Aegon was the rightful King, he could not imagine turning against the Silver Prince’s youngest child, the one that hatched a dragon.

 

“Attention will have to be shifted to the lions at the earliest possibility. Better to turn the Red Viper’s ire to Tywin’s mad dog than an innocent girl born long after Princess Elia was shamed.”

 

“Better yet to delay the meeting until an accord is struck between the Princess and her brother.”

 

“True,” Monford’s voice rang with approval. “Though I doubt that even Prince Oberyn hates the late Princess Lyanna enough to deprive his nephew the benefit of a close-blooded sister to marry off. House Targaryen is not so strong that it can afford to deny any blood to its name.”

 

“Especially not a dragonrider capable of peeking through the curtains of time,” Aurane pointed out.

 

He turned the conversation to another question brought up by Princess Visenya’s stay.

 

“Have you settled the issue regarding Lord Stannis?”

 

“It would be foolish to draw the Usurper’s attention by killing him,” Monford stated slowly, “Particularly foolish when the crown’s naval power resides almost entirely in the Crownlands and Lord Stannis makes for such a convenient hostage.”

 

“Of course. But is it not a shame that Lady Shireen should grow up in such a drafty castle alone?”

 

“Indeed, Brother. Though I cannot host the child with Lady,” Monford’s nose crinkled. “Alys in my home. Perhaps Lord Bar Emmon?”

 

“His son is only a few years older than Lady Shireen. I was thinking Lord Celtigar myself.”

 

“Adrian is a good man but he shall have to be coaxed into hosting the Usurper’s niece in his home. I would be wary of his grudge with Lord Stannis affecting the child as well.”

 

“Lord Sunglass then,” Aurane countered, “He shares Lady Selyse’s old piety of the Seven. He wouldn’t allow a mad jester into his home and that may be enough to sway Lord Stannis into agreement.”

 

They discussed the matter further before agreeing that Monford and Alcryn Sunglass could approach Stannis with the offer when Aurane set sail. Dragonstone may be a formidable castle to siege but not even Stannis Baratheon, proud, unyielding and brittle as he was, would risk his only child’s life to do so. When the conversation was done, Aurane left for the harbor with a certain lightness to his feet. They had a Princess, they knew where to find a Prince and they were forming a Plan. The Usurper may still rule Westeros but for the first time in ten-and-three years, House Velaryon had hope.

 

x

 

_‘I may have underestimated how fond they are of House Targaryen.’_

 

The beautifully decorated room they had put her in was leagues above her one at home. The walls were a light aquamarine with white-foamed waves painted near the floor.The green silk curtains fluttered in the sea breeze. The bed, dominated by thick, green comforters, was made of fine white wood. The floor had a center tile pattern of an exploding star burst and there were two paintings, one of Driftmark proper and the other of a ship navigating a whirlpool, hung on the walls.

 

The room was also three mere doors down from the Lord’s suite, which implied a measure of intimacy and trust that Lyarra hadn’t even found at Winterfell.

 

 _‘Are you going to tell them about me speaking?’_ Azantys beat his wings furiously against the towel, droplets of water still dripping from the membranes. He had delighted in the bath prepared for them and it was solely the promise of another tomorrow that drew him out.

 

_‘Not yet. I don’t think they can handle another surprise so quickly.’_

 

That was a minor secret to the revelations of her identity and Aegon’s survival but the dark-haired girl still hadn’t brought herself to fully trust House Velaryon. They were kind to her- undeniably, astoundingly, almost _frighteningly_ kind- but they were also strangers. The bonds that they shared were fragile and based on a heritage she herself was ignorant of. Azantys, little more than a babe and flattered by the awed manner in which they handled him, had less of such compunctions.

 

Though it remained her belief that this would be one surprise too many. Lyarra had feared Lord Monford to die happily of heart palpitations when she revealed Aegon’s location.

 

_‘Will this be our home now?’_

 

Lyarra paused in her current actions, stripping the bed of sheets and tying the fabric into a handy escape rope _just in case,_ to wince. There was a hopefulness to his tone that reminded her of Azantys’ need for stability. If only circumstances had permitted them to make Winterfell home…

 

‘ _We will stay here for a few days. Then we shall travel across the Narrow Sea and find Aegon._ ’

 

_‘Your nest-mate? Will he hatch a dragon too?’_

 

 _‘He may.’_ Her mind moved to the two eggs, vivid crimson and dusty gold and wondered which would hatch before the silver-haired boy’s hand. And to the identity of the third rider; Viserys and Daenerys were both options but she didn’t know which it would crack for. _‘It is time for sleep, little one.’_

 

 _‘May I hear another story?’_ Azantys’ gemlike eyes tracked her carefully as the slim girl pulled and shoved a heavy coffer against the door. Her muscles groaned in protest when she was done.

 

_‘Have I told you of Cregan Stark and the Hour of the Wolf?’_

 

It took a few moments more to arrange the bed to her liking, an odd arrangement of pillows and coverlets that looked eerily similar to a nested cave, and place the sword at her preferred spot, within arm’s reach and mostly out of sight should anyone enter the room. Afterward Lyarra curled up alongside her bonded dragon and began recounting the reign of a single day’s Hand. When it was concluded to Azantys’ satisfaction, she closed her eyes and found herself standing again in Braavos.

 

The relative lack of stress from having a roof above her head and sleeping on a feather bed for the first time in _weeks_ made Lyarra’s sleep incalculably satisfying. It was to such a deep slumber that she fell to that a half dozen knocks in succession and Azantys’ head were needed to rouse her. Even then it was a drowsily-eyed girl that stumbled out and cleared the door. Once the maids had finished gaping at the sword in her hand, the furniture against the door and the _dragon_ on her bed, looking tearfully ready to embrace her all the while, fresh clothes were presented and a bath readied.

 

“A meal to break your fast will be brought up soon, my lady,” the older of the women said, her bow deeper than even those Lyarra remembered directed to Lord Stark. “Is there anything else you need?”

 

“No, this is fine. Thank you,” the Snow spluttered. She didn’t think she would ever be accustomed to such reverence from utter strangers.

 

 _‘Lyaa, Lyaa, look! I’m swimming by myself!’_ Discomfort forgotten, she promptly moved to ensure that Azantys wouldn’t drown himself.

 

The meal turned out to be fresh bread rolls, honey-laden oats, fruit slices, smoked bacon and enough hot tea for six men, much less herself and Aurane Waters. Any surprise felt at the man’s arrival was swiftly put aside for her growling stomach. She gratefully sat across from him on her bed, balancing her plate over her knees and taking a sip of the tea.

 

“Monford had thought that you would rather stay with your dragon at present,” Aurane explained. “I apologize for the secrecy but only a few of the most trusted servants were alerted to your arrival.”

 

“No, I’m grateful for the consideration,” Lyarra responded. She picked up a strip of bacon and held it out to the dusk-toned dragon, noting the man’s violet gaze tracking the movement with barely hidden wonder. She had to duck down, a few shaggy locks of dark brown hiding her smile, at his reaction. She posed a mental question to Azantys, receiving a quick answer. “Would you care to feed him?”

 

“Me?” While his words were dazed, the man’s hands were steady when he reverentially held the strip of meat out to Azantys. Her little warrior, rather more of a mummer than she suspected him, went so far to lick the man’s fingers afterward and coo his thanks. Predictably enough, Aurane melted.

 

“He likes to be rubbed behind the ears,” Lyarra volunteered, terribly amused when the young man hurried to follow the directive.

 

 _‘I like this one! We should keep him, Lyaa.’_ Azantys fluttered his wings. ‘ _His fingers are_ so good _._ ’

 

 _‘I’ll see what I can do.’_ Her wry tone to the dragon was changed to a polite one for Aurane. “Are there any plans set for today?”

 

“A ship is being prepared for our journey. Before then, Monford suggested swordsmanship lessons with myself til noon and then spending the remainder of the day with Lady Sylvia. I know not her plans but they likely include a tour of the castle and island. Monford would speak to you of pertinent matters after supper. My brother begs your pardon for the delay but there is estate business that must be attended to.”

 

“That sounds wonderful.” Lyarra’s silver-violet eyes were lit in startled pleasure at the opportunity for formal lessons in wielding a sword. “Forgive me but how do you remain so accepting of…”

 

“A woman who can fight?” A grin stretched out across his face. He nodded to the dragon he remained petting. “You must learn more of your history, Princess. House Targaryen had many infamous warrior women in its ranks, including your own illustrious namesake.”

 

“I am not yet accustomed to going by that title,” she told him, still marveling at the concept. Not even House Stark supported that practice, so perhaps there was pride to be found in dragon’s blood.

 

“You have time, my lady,” Aurane told her kindly, changing to a less charged form of address. Her shoulders uncoiled minutely. “There is an area of the beach that is enclosed from the rest and will be suitably private for our lessons. Your dragon may accompany us, though you will need your satchel to carry him there.”

 

The dark-haired girl beamed at his consideration for Azantys and finished soon after. Her familiar was no less quick, eager to try paddling in sea water. Aurane Waters gracefully stood to his feet and offered her his hand; as she was escorted down to the secluded training spot, Lyarra noticed the occasional jealous glance thrown at them and attributed that to her handsome guide. It hadn’t honestly been the first time she experienced that, though why the maids of Winterfell were attracted to _Robb_ was unknown to her. Of course, they hadn’t the misfortune of seeing her brother snort mango juice out of his nose, laughing so hard as he was once, as she did.

 

The sword-fighting lesson with Aurane Waters was eye-opening. For one, the entirety of his attention was focused on her, something that Lyarra hadn’t ever experienced before. Even in the lessons that she was allowed to share with her half-siblings had Maester Luwin focus on Robb as the Stark Heir. This one held an intensity and dedication solely for her and by a teacher proficient in his art. The Bastard of Driftmark did not hold back in his lessons, tossing her into the sand and littering her fair skin with bruises, as his blunted blade made quick work of the one given to her. He corrected her grip multiple times, charged her into constant repetitions of footwork and swings and alternated praise and criticism for the work done. Through it all, his voice remained patient, his hands gentle and his violet eyes lit with that all-too-strange softness of devotion.

 

Lyarra was ecstatic. Once the embarrassment of looking so dirty and sweaty around a man of Aurane’s looks passed, she could devote herself wholly to the lesson and progress far more rapidly than by her own efforts. How much further could she have been along with a teacher available to her?

 

After over two hours had passed, the dark-haired girl became aware of something odd occurring at the corner of her eye. Raising one hand for a brief stop, she turned to find that Azantys had abandoned paddling in the ocean or collecting seashells and was now packing sand together. He had managed a considerable amount into a rough hill, adding in grains soaked with salt water as needed to maintain the shape.

 

 _‘Azantys, what are you doing?’_ The wet sand made a structurally unsound dune for the little dragon to climb on top of.

 

 _‘I’m training too.’_ With that confounding answer, her familiar balanced on his hind legs, jumped up into the air and beat his wings rapidly. The gusts made weren’t quite enough to keep the dragon aloft and instead he soared in an uncontrolled manner straight into the ground several feet away. Head slumped into the sand, Azantys made a full-body wiggle to pull himself back out and sneezed. Grains of sand littered his dark scales as dull stars would a dusky sky.

 

“He’s trying to fly,” Lyarra said, astounded and a bit touched by the action.

 

“His wings aren’t strong enough to support him yet,” Aurane noted. “He’ll need more lift if he plans to exercise his wings.”

 

“May we take a break?” At his assent, she headed towards her dusk-toned dragon, catching him when his second jump had him veering in her direction. _‘Do you want me to throw you up?’_

 

 _‘That high?’_ Apprehensive, Azantys twisted his neck to look up at the clear blue sky and then back at her. _‘You’ll catch me?’_

 

 _‘Always.’_ As his wings folded against his back, she moved her hands until they were around his side and then threw him up. Two, three, four, six, eight feet he flew and then, at the zenith, his wings sprung out. Azantys beat them furiously, managing to stay aloft for a few heartbeats before he fell in a semi-controlled plummet to her arms. Lyarra spun him around and laughed. _‘Again?’_

 

 _‘Again_!’ And in a secluded beach in Driftmark, far away from the icy halls of her home, Lyarra Snow taught a dragon to fly.

 

x

 

Lady Sylvia Velaryon was one-and-twenty, not too young that Lyarra could not respect her authority but not too old that they were unable to be friends. She was a plain-faced brunette given to gentle smiles and warm eyes that brought out far more of her beauty than many women were given to. Her full-figure was rather generous, so generous that the dark-haired girl spent a second or two looking dismayed at her own chest and her gestures were those of well-controlled cheer. She greeted Lyarra with good humor and then immediately began to torture her.

 

“The first dress was fine, my lady. You truly needn’t commission another,” she protested, eyeing the seamstress and her yards of pale pink in dread. “I am grateful for your considerat-”

 

“Tuck the hem in a little more, won’t you?” Lady Sylvia ignored her entirely. “Do you have more of that royal purple from before? I’d like one in the slit-knee Pentoshi style for that.”

 

“I don’t have enough for a full dress, my lady.” The seamstress had quickly learned that Lyarra’s words held no weight and that Lady Sylvia was eager to do business. Naturally her attention turned to the woman with the appetite and the coin for more gowns. “I can use it for the skirts and have a body of midnight blue though. It would bring out the lovely violet in those eyes. And perhaps a white one?”

 

“A summer dress! Excellent idea, Mistress Maella. Have two made, yellow and white muslin with hats.”

 

“Shall I add slippers to the order?”

 

“If they should match the dresses, then yes. Also, I am aware that this is an unusual request but Lady Alys prefers to wear trousers during her walks. Have you any near size that could be fitted to form?”

 

The seamstress looked flat-footed by such a request but nodded regardless. “How many?”

 

“Three shall be fine, one in black and paired with a sleeveless, crimson tunic.”

 

“As you wish, my lady. Any requests for her sleepwear?”

 

“Four shall be fine for now. Three of them should be simple shifts and the last… let’s have a violet shift in the same _style_ as my last one.”

 

The two older women exchanged a silent communication, leaving the last in the room bemused to it all. “A full boudoir then, my lady?”

 

“In a matter of speaking though she needs to travel soon. Prioritize the tunics and shifts first, sheepskin cloaks, woolen hats and mittens next as it may be cold. Have the neckline of the pink gown cut a bit deeper near the chest and tighten the bodice. Alys is a pretty girl, no reason to hide it.”

 

Lyarra was starting to get the impression that the _seamstress_ was starting to get the impression that she was to be sent off for marriage soon.

 

In truth, when Lady Sylvia had declared her in need of a wardrobe, Lyarra had expected one or two pieces. Thus, she hadn’t complained when she was brought before the seamstress to be poked and prodded on yellowing bruises with sharp pins. The woman had clucked ‘clumsy, clumsy’ all throughout the measuring process and now, when discussing the items needed with her hostess, it became evident Lady Sylvia meant a _full_ wardrobe. They were arranged in the Lady’s personal quarters, while Azantys was curled out of sight under her coverlets, belly distended from all of Aurane’s pampering. Lyarra had considered it a sound measure then but she was silently wishing for his support now.

 

“My lady, you have ordered enough dresses for me,” Lyarra protested again. Her pride couldn’t accept the sheer _expense_ of everything mentioned, so far. “The cost is-”

 

“Lord Velaryon allocated a generous budget for this, Alys,” Sylvia interrupted her, regarding her with a calm gaze. “Please, think nothing of it. We are ordering everything that is necessary.”

 

There was logic to such a claim. The dark-haired girl wasn’t so naive that she didn’t understand the necessity of dressing for her eventual role as a princess. She wasn’t so naive that she didn’t consider war an eventuality, that she was just as much a symbol for the loyalists as a person herself. She wasn’t so naive that she excused the possibility of being married off for more swords to the cause.

 

Her Fath- Uncle Eddard married to overthrow the dragons and she would likely marry to return them.

 

“You are being too kind,” she whispered anyway. Had there been a misty film to her eyes, it was one that Lady Sylvia was disinclined to mention. Instead, the older woman placed one comforting hand to her cheek.

 

“You deserve every kindness in the world, Alys,” Sylvia murmured. “One day you will realize that too.”

 

x

 

The Lord of White Harbor was dutifully reviewing his merchants' biannual trade accounts when there was a sharp, hasty knock on the door. Mildly alarmed, for his House knew not to distract him unless it was a matter of some import, he put down his quill and beckoned the visitor entry. Maester Elwin, still rather young for the six chains he had earned, brimmed with curiosity as he bustled in.

 

"A letter m'lord," Elwin brandished the parchment in the air. "It has the Stark direwolf."

 

"A direwolf? Ned must have found his lost pup then." Wyman plucked the letter up with pleasure, expecting it to be a missive from his liege lord calling off the search. The emblazon on the wax, not of Lord Stark's direwolf head but a single clawed paw, paid swift end to that belief.

 

Wyman Manderly knew that symbol. Four years past he had commissioned a wax seal stamp of his own design for Robb Stark's nameday and another five for each of his siblings. There had been much internal debate over gifting one to the bastard but eventually, he had decided that Lord Stark's favor for the kindness would exceed Lady Stark's ire for the same. He remembered the Snow, surprised, confused and delighted all at once at the gift and her shyly expressed thanks. She had proudly shown it to her elder brother and Robb Stark had been just as pleased by her gifting as his own.

 

Wyman had left the visit thinking that the Seven had blessed Lyarra Snow with all but a noble name. She was a comely child, given to good health and a family that loved her dearly. Lord Stark had given her an education comparable to any of his trueborn children and with the young wolf's affection, she was certain of a home and protector for likely her natural life. Her beauty and blood would win her a respectable marriage and till then, her greatest suffering came from a distant stepmother.

 

Lady Catelyn Stark had no affection for her husband's bastard, that was clear to all. She did not treat the Snow as kindly as the North was accustomed to but her treatment was still leagues above the noblewomen south of the Neck. A lack of affection, painful for the child involved, remained far better an alternative to many other lives. Lyarra Snow, unaccustomed to a life outside of the protective and privileged walls of Winterfell, shouldn’t have been pushed into fleeing her father’s home.

 

There were others, Wyman knew, who believed one of two other arguments. The first was that Lady Catelyn treated her husband’s bastard far more harshly than people had thought and that Lyarra Snow had fled for fear of her stepmother. He personally didn’t hold to this argument, knowing that Lord Stark loved his natural born daughter too much to allow such abuse under his domain. The second was that Lyarra Snow had committed an impetuous folly and would return home under her own power, once the hardships of the smallfolk made itself clear. This was presuming that she didn’t die along the way of course, since sheltered noblewomen typically lacked notable survival skills. Wyman was… less certain of this than others. A woman who had prepared so for a journey could not have been insensible to the talents or lack thereof inherent to her upbringing, could she?

 

Regardless there was a letter sent with a Stark-related wax mark now and the address given, to _Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell_ , was in a woman’s hand. It wasn’t surprising that the letter would reach White Harbor first. Ravens were not inexpensive messengers and could be taught one or two paths at best. Winterfell, despite being the seat of a Great House, was remote enough that few Houses outside of the North or the required institutions, the Citadel, the Crown, etc. would own one. Most letters were instead sent to House Manderly as White Harbor was one of the main trading cities in Westeros and they would be expected to pass this on.

 

“Did the raven carry a marker?” Wyman asked, despite knowing the possibility weak. Tags around a raven’s leg would indicate where and to whom it belonged, to be sent back by road or ship for most. Removing one would be the most basic measure taken to hold some semblance of security.

 

“No, my lord but it did fly away when I retrieved the letter. It flew east towards the water.” Wyman’s eyebrows shot up. Ravens that flew back and forth between selected points were far more expensive than most and belonging almost exclusively to noble houses. The smallfolk could rent ravens on one-way trips but only a House would swallow the expenditure to buy a two-way messenger.

 

This established several facts then. One was that Lyarra Snow was alive at the point that she sent this letter. It was evidently written by her own hand, whether coerced or willing he did not know but still proving her life. Two, Lyarra Snow was currently living with or had access to a House of mid-level wealth with a ravenry and Maester of its own. Third, this mysterious House was not in the North, elsewise the letter would be sent directly to Winterfell. Fourth, there remained enough correspondence between this House and White Harbor to necessitate a two-way raven, likely for trade-based letters. And fifth, this was unlikely to be any story of a foolish young girl running away for an imagined slight.

 

“Bring Wylis to my office, Elwin,” Lord Manderly ordered. He put the letter on his desk and used his fingers to massage his temples. Gods, first a sister kidnapped by a prince and now a daughter running away below the Neck. Could there be any man unluckier than Ned Stark right now?

 

x

 

_“Mama, Mama, will you tell me a story?”_

 

_“A story, Barathea? Oh, very well but you must promise to fall asleep afterward.”_

 

_“I promise! Tell me of the Queen! I saw her ride over the castle on her dragon today.”_

 

_“Now_ that _is a rather long story to tell…”_

 

_“Please, Mama? I promise to go to sleep when you’re done.”_

 

_“Alright. Then let me tell you of King Aegon the Just and Queen Visenya the Wise. Their story began a long, long time ago, with a girl named Lyarra and a boy named Griffin…”_

 

_x_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

 

Robb Stark had spent the day hacking at the straw dummies in the courtyard, giving him an unobstructed view of the Hunter’s Gate when the green and blue merman’s sigil rode in. The small procession was headed by a man of considerable girth, a prod of memory supplied a name. Why would Ser Wylis Manderly, Heir to White Harbor, be riding to Winterfell on this day?

 

As soon as the question was posed, an answer provided itself. Father had sent out letters to his bannermen. Had they found…?

 

The auburn-haired boy, tall and broad-shouldered but not yet a man, hurried towards the gate in eager, unsteady steps. He scanned the procession for a smaller figure, light and slender, her violet eyes as familiar to him as his own river blue ones in the looking glass. Lyarra, Lyarra, Lyarra. Where was his sister? Why did she not show herself to him?

 

The brief flicker of hope, dying embers as they were, fell to silence when each rider stopped. Four men were here. Four men and none of them with a dark-haired she-wolf to jump down from the horse and embrace him. None to share in his laughter as he spun her around and welcomed her home.

 

 _‘Lyarra would have hit me had I tried that,’_ Robb thought unwittingly. ‘ _Her eyes would be brimming with displeasure for being caught. She had fled her childhood home willingly._ ’

 

All of the signs pointed to that, however little the Stark Heir had desired to believe them. It shamed him for how, briefly, he wished Lyarra kidnapped instead. The other possibility tasted of failure, ash in his mouth for the little sister he had failed to keep safe. As the eldest brother, it was Robb’s duty to protect all of his younger siblings, was it not? Lyarra had been one of them and yet not. She had been closest to his age, more close friend and equal partner than someone to be taken care of. His earliest memories had been of poking her awake in their shared crib. Lyarra had been such a grumpy babe.

 

 _‘Mayhaps that is where I went wrong?’_ Robb wondered. Independent of his thoughts, his body fell into a proper bow, his mouth formed the words to welcome the riders to Winterfell. _‘Had I protected her more, told the servants off when they whispered bastard or reassured her of her place here, would Lyarra not have left?’_

 

He should have rode after her. Father had assured him that the bannermen would look in his stead but they hadn’t managed to find her yet. How had they failed that? Lyarra was talented, yes. She had attended almost every lesson he had and taught herself those skills that hadn’t been allowed her but she was four-and-ten! These men should have found her by now.

 

Robb’s internal recriminations on the matter were brought to a close on the man’s last words. “Ser Wylis, can you repeat that? You have a letter? From my sister?”

 

The man looked at him with sympathetic eyes. He reached into his coverlet and withdrew folded parchment. He may have preferred lance to sword and sword to bow but Robb’s eyes were quick enough to see the words written on the side. He knew that writing. He had spent more hours than he cared to count reviewing her notes. It was startling how pleased he was by the familiar script now.

 

“Please come with me.” However politely said, there was steel in his voice, a hint of the man Robb Stark would one day become. “My Father would like to see this.”

 

Ned Stark was still in his solar. Had someone told him a man could age a decade in a day, Robb would have believed them. His Father looked that way now, grey streaks in his hair evident and the sorrow in his eyes palpable. Ser Wylis looked taken aback by the grief-stricken man in his liege lord’s place.

 

For a moment, anger was added to his own medley of sadness. ‘ _Lyarra, for whatever led you to cause our Father this much pain, I hope it was worth it.’_

 

A spark of hope entered Father’s eye when he saw the letter. “She’s alive,” he whispered quietly.

 

 _‘She is,_ ’ Robb knew. _‘I would have known otherwise.’_

 

He didn’t know how such a claim could prove true but he would have known. Lyarra was such an integral part of his life. If she had died, how would there not be an emptiness where part of life used to reside? Robb was adamant on this, if nothing else.

 

Ser Wylis made his apologies and receded from the room. He was in desperate need of sustenance and rest after the arduous journey here, he claimed. A lie evidently but one Robb was thankful for, as it moved him ever closer to hearing those words. The knight was scarcely out the door before Ned Stark, foregoing his letter knife, tore it apart by hand.

 

 _‘What did it say? Where is Lyarra now? Will she come back home?’_ The auburn-haired not-yet-man impatiently stood before the desk as his father read the letter. Once it was done, the man soundlessly passed it over.

 

_Dear Father,_

 

_If this letter should be in your hand, then know that I am with friends of my House that have offered me shelter and succor. Know that my journey has been swift and without any mishaps, that I am hale and healthy and far from the domains of any who may wish me harm. Know also that I have learnt of my mother’s name and that I hold no ill will to you for keeping her from me all these years. Above all, know that I love you and I love my siblings and Uncle Benjen and Winterfell. No matter the wyrd that the Gods have written for us, the last shall always remain true. You are and shall always be my family._

 

_For my mother, her identity has come as a surprise. All I know of her was that she was beautiful and died tragically. It is not enough to mourn her as a daughter properly must but the little knowledge I know, I do treasure. You must have loved her greatly to protect me as you had and that, I think, will state more of her character than any other words can express._

 

_You may wonder why I chose to leave Winterfell as I had. It wasn’t a path chosen easily; if nothing else, I regret sneaking away under the cover of darkness. I should have explained the truth to you and had it been solely to affect me, I would have. But I know you, Father. I know that you are honorable and good and just and that you shall protect your family above all else. I also know that a second life would depend on your decision and that he was not yet family-_

 

Robb abruptly broke off reading as a murderous intent filled his soul. “Lyarra was with child?!”

 

He was going to kill him. Robb didn’t know who it was yet but when he found the man that put a child in his sister, the Stark Heir was going to kill him.

 

His Father waved at him to continue reading.

 

_-not yet family to us. If you should read this aloud to my siblings, please take this moment to assure them that I am still a maiden. And that I have not ridden off with a man to be wed or that even if I had (which I have not!) murder remains an unacceptable solution._

 

_I left with a babe, Father. A babe hatched not from the misery of a sire’s birth but happenstance. I am certain the Gods must have been laughing at us all that day._

 

_One day I should like to introduce you to this babe. Arya has already met him, so I confess you shall not be his favorite wolf. Ask her of him, if you should not know yet, and thank her for the words she has yet to say. I know it was a painful truth to keep but necessary, for all that I despise my demands._

 

_There are matters that I must accomplish, Father. Wrongs to be righted and freedom to be found. A better world that I will try to forge, through flame and steel if needed, for this babe. My promise to you, however little peace it may bring, is that I will seek to do so with all of the honor you have instilled in me. I will never forget what it truly means to be a Stark. I will never forget the debt I owe._

 

_My only request, and if you love me at all, you must grant me this, is that you shall burn this letter. He is a babe, Father. He is a babe and his death would be over my corpse alone. Remember that._

 

_Finally, if you could share them, words each for my siblings._

 

_To Robb, my older brother and closest friend, please forgive me…_

 

He read the short paragraph quickly, promising him that she was safe and apologizing repeatedly for her actions. She even promised to return to Winterfell one day, if he should still have her. If Arya was here, she would declare that a stupid question. Robb agreed; his home would ever be opened to her.

 

Declining to continue further out of respect for his siblings- though a single glance proved Arya’s paragraph two lines longer than his!- Robb focused on the curiosity of it all. “Babe, Father?”

 

Ned Stark was looking quietly out the window. “Rhaegar was born in the Tragedy of Summerhall.”

 

“Father?” Old Targaryen history wasn’t Robb’s specialty. A love of stories had been Lyarra and Bran’s.

 

“Son, there lies a truth that I should have spoken long before this day.” His Father’s eyes were closed but there was a wetness to the edge of them. “A promise made to a sister that I kept to my breast for four-and-ten years. One that you must never share with anyone, lest it mean all of our deaths.”

 

“Father?” Aunt Lyanna? House Targaryen? Why was Father looking around the room, ensuring silence?

 

“Not even your mother, Robb. Promise me.”

 

The auburn-haired boy looked down at the letter briefly. _Hatched._ He swallowed. “I promise.”

 

“Someone must know this should the kingdoms fall to war again. If… If I am not alive to declare for your sister, than you must. Whether she goes by Lyarra Snow or her true name… Visenya Targaryen.”

 

x

 

Lyarra balanced carefully on the tips of her feet, hands braced against the rail and body tilted forward, to watch the horde of white-and-black striped beasts running across the Flatlands. They were near enough to the coast for the sounds of their stampede to reach her ears. Never having seen one before, the dark-haired girl was enraptured by the stumpy legs, stubby tails and striped fur.

 

“Oh!” A sudden fierce turn of the waves had mist spray into her eyes, leading the she-wolf to lose her footing. Lyarra would have toppled backwards onto deck had it not been for the arms catching her.

 

“Be careful, my Lady,” Aurane warned, an amused smile on his face as he steadied there, “The sea is a tempestuous mistress.”

 

A red flush painted her cheeks as she straightened up. “I wanted to see the animals there.”

 

“The zorses? They’re foul-tempered beasts but hardy and useful for travel across the plains.”

 

“Zorses,” Lyarra tasted the word on her tongue. It seemed fittingly exotic for such a beast. “I’ve never heard of one before.”

 

“I’m not surprised. They’d been specially bred by the Jogos Nhai for the last few years, though the population grew rapidly in the wilds. You wouldn’t have seen one in Westeros.”

 

“Jogos Nhai?” Seeing the question on her face, he quickly explained them to be a Yi Ti tribe living east of the Bane Mountains. Lyarra listened in quiet fascination about their custom of binding a child’s head from birth leading to the distinctive pointed skull and their marriage custom where women stole their husbands, often from other tribes.

 

“The wildlings north of the Wall have a similar custom,” she said excitedly, “Though in their case, it’s a man kidnapping a woman for their bride.”

 

“Like many nomadic tribes, the Jogos Nhai afford more agency to women. Part of the reason may be due to their religion of moonsingers.”

 

The captain continued on how priestesses were afforded great respect in their culture, nearly on par with the chieftain of the tribe and the duties they performed. It was a role primarily held by women though men were allowed to hold it if they dressed and lived as a female.

 

“Robb would never believe _that_ ,” the Snow noted, briefly feeling a pang of homesickness for her older brother. She determinedly set is aside to shake her head regretfully. “You know so much about the world. I feel rather ignorant in comparison.”

 

“Don’t. I was fortunate enough to travel in my life. Not many men or practically any women have that opportunity. And Westerosi knowledge of the many cultures of Essos is woefully limited.”

 

“If… If I should return to Winterfell, I would like to update their library,” Lyarra returned her eyes to the zorse herd. “We- that is, Azantys and I- would like to visit every notable site in the world and write books on our travels. Like the explorer, Lomas Longstrider.”

 

She peeked up at him through her eyelashes, uncertain of the thoughtful expression on his face. “It’s silly, I know. Aegon will need help to regain the throne and should I ever marry, my husband isn’t likely to accept… what is this?”

 

“A spyglass.” There was a genuine kindness to Aurane Waters’ smile. “Do you draw, my Lady?”

 

“A little,” Lyarra answered bemused.

 

“There are spare journals in the captain’s cabin. I mainly use them as ship’s log and merchant record or occasionally to record my own thoughts but they should do well for sketches. The second mate, Trysil, also has some Yi-Ti blood from his father. He may know a little more about zorses.”

 

“Oh?” She looked down confused at the smooth copper of the spyglass in her hands. “Oh! Thank you!”

 

Pausing briefly to shoot a radiant smile at the young captain, receiving a reaction that was one part flustered and two parts charmed, she turned on her heel and headed to the cabin. The sailors were busy at work but moved to clear her pathway regardless; Lyarra was relieved that their awe and wonder from before had settled into a happy sort of respect. Not that they didn’t still light up in glee whenever Azantys stretched his wings by flying lowly around the ship for the journey.

 

He wasn’t flying around now but balancing on stubby, weak legs by the porthole, staring longingly out to sea. The dusk-colored dragon didn’t even look up when she entered. ‘ _One day…’_

 

Outside were dozens of flying fish, translucent wings batting seawater away as they made incredible leaps across the ocean. Each thrust of tailfin preceded a graceful glide over an expanse of dark blue, each dip back into water tracked by glittering amber orbs. Azantys slid his forked tongue over sharp little teeth, the smugness of an alpha predator watching his prey flee oozing from every pore despite Lyarra’s strict orders that he not practice ‘splashing’ outside of her tub.

 

When a bird swooped down and caught one in its talons, Azantys finally looked away. The sheer enthusiasm on his features were reminiscent of her middle brother, though Azantys a newborn dragon and Bran, a boy of seven namedays. Either case had Lyarra Snow smiling back indulgently.

 

 _‘Did you see that? One day, I will be able to do that,’_ he declared excitedly.

 

 _‘With all the practice you have done, that day will not be far off,’_ Lyarra replied, leading him to preen outwardly. ‘ _Aurane suggested that I sketch the zorses on the shore._ ’

 

The dark-haired girl stilled for a moment, allowing an alien presence- _Lyarra-but-not-_ passage to her mind. The selected moment was lifted soon, a flash of silver pale hair and the word ‘spyglass’ heard once, before she recollected herself. As her settings came back to focus, she saw Azantys cock his head to the side, not quite absorbing the memory but gaining from it, a knowledge lacked before.

 

It was eerie how unsettled she was _not_. Surely there should be more of an instinctive backlash against opening her mind to a foreign entity, however intimate their bond? This distress was mild but in the next second, near doubled in panic and then a second later, felt all-consuming in its worry. Lyarra bit her tongue and forced the anxiety bubbling upwards down.

 

 _‘Calm down, little one, calm down,’_ she thought fiercely. _‘I am not angry with you. I love you. I will always love you._ ‘

 

The Snow concentrated for a moment and then mustered a wave of deep affection to drown their connection. _‘You and I shall fly higher than the stars, further than the sun. We will rise above the clouds and all the world shall be our playground.’_

 

It took more time than she was comfortable with but eventually Azantys, having fallen down to the cot situated near the wall, could reply. _‘I’m sorry Lyaa…’_

 

‘ _Hush, little one. You are a child and I should not have forgotten that.’_ The anxiety receded and from the mess of emotions left behind, she could pick out relief and shame. It was difficult to pick out where her own ended and his began. _‘We must do something about our connection.’_

 

The flare of sheer panic then was most certainly not her own, so she quickly added. ‘ _Not end it! Little one, I could never deny the bond that we share. It is a balm to my mind to know that you are healthy and hale… but if we’re not careful, then this gift can become a curse.’_

 

 _‘They echo off of each other.’_ Lyarra sat on the cot, drawing the dragon closer. ‘ _When you felt my distress, your own raised, which affected me. And from there, a dangerous cycle was born. An ever-turning wheel of misery and despair. We needn’t break the wheel but we must find a way to direct it or, at the very least, slow it down before it overcomes us at the most inconvenient moment._ ’

 

 _‘Like when we’re fighting?’_ Azantys shuddered at her solemn nod. ‘ _‘How do we do that?’_

 

_‘...I haven’t a clue. Many of the secrets of the dragonlords died with House Targaryen or mayhaps even before that in the Doom of Old Valyria.’_

 

_‘It is not easy to be alone in the world, Lyaa.’_

 

 _‘No, Azantys.’_ Her eyes moved involuntarily to the disguised chest built into the floor of the Captain’s cabin. An iron necklace around her neck alone could open the lock and within it, laid the two remaining dragon eggs in her possession. ‘ _Being alone in the world is a terrible thing._ ’

 

There was a moment of silence and while she knew naught of those thoughts her familiar held, her own was a wistful desire for a man with silver hair and aster eyes. Ned Stark remained her father in her mind but Rhaegar Targaryen held a place there himself and he, unlike the reserved man who raised her, would have been gleeful at the prospect of dragons. As a scholar, he would have likely run all manner of experiments to discover the depth and strength of her bond…

 

 _‘Azantys, I have it!’_ Gently pushing the young one off of her lap, the dark-haired girl sprung to her feet and headed towards the logs. As Captain Aurane had promised, there were spare journals aplenty on the desk. A few had a messy scribble across the cover that piqued her interest but while Lyarra was born with a damningly burning curiosity, she hadn’t yet lost all respect for other’s privacy. ‘ _If you look out the window, can you see the zorses?’_

 

The puzzled dragon responded in the affirmative. The Snow then offered her proposal; her mind had been opened to the latter many times but she had never ventured into his own. Their first order of business was to test the connectivity of their bond. Could either enter each other’s minds? Could she observe the zorses through his eyes and if so, for how long could she hold it?

 

Azantys had been eager to test it as well. He balanced back against the window, the white scratch marks littering the wood evidence of his presence, and gemlike eyes focused unerringly forward. Lyarra sat cross-legged next to him, closing her eyes and trying to focus on that ball of warmth inside of her. The second heartbeat that hummed far more quickly than her own ever did.

 

Lyarra imagined a pale yellow sun, softly glowing inside a room of darkness. She mentally prodded it. It slipped through her grasp as fine as air and she reached for it again. Again and again. Warmth and familiarity but ever further from her reach. _‘I cannot touch it…’_

 

 _‘I flew through it.’_ The sun pulsed lightly, whirring around, a snow shrew after its prize when the words came through. Lyarra brushed her hand over it, light slipping past her fingers. ‘ _Trying too hard.’_

 

_‘How can I ease myself into the sun?’_

 

‘ _Turn it into a lake.’_ The pulsing sphere disappeared, melting into an expanding pool of crystal water. Roots extended beneath it all and bone white wood rose up. From heavy branches were laden crimson red leaves, palm’s width and looming over a crying face. Lyarra tried to immerse herself into the water but recoiled when glittering ice swept over it.

 

 _‘Not the right one.’_ She looked to the face. It peered back with blood-dripped eyes. _‘Let me in.’_

 

 _‘Don’t be afraid.’_ Azantys claws nicked the ice, _click-clack_ , spiderwebs spiralling outwards. _‘We can breathe here, you and I.’_

 

 _‘The face isn’t right.’_ Lyarra touched the base of the tree and the weirwood stopped crying. A laughing tree and shadows of men, three all with dragons on their breastplate. We died for a dragon, they said. Become a dragon. Fall and the wind will catch you.

 

She slipped in. Water spreading across her face, into her mouth, clear as air. When she opened them, she was flying. When she blinked, Lyarra was gone.

 

_Colors were much sharper here but also wrong. The sky was not the pale blue of before but azure, so bright it almost hurt her eyes and wide and empty. She yearned to spread her wings across the vast emptiness before her, knowing instinctively that this was where she would be King. Her eyes moved from the sky to the black and white blurs in the distance, sharpening until she could she blades of grass whispering in the wind. Each stripe melted into the other seamlessly but she could find the places where it had turned, hair lightening black than grey than silver than white on the zorse. More than color was movement. She knew where they would run. She knew how they would run. She knew she could swoop down and bite her jaws into unprotected flank. Not yet, not yet but soon. The zorse-_

 

The knowledge that she had succeeded was what eventually broke her link. Lyarra nearly jerked off the cot with how hard she toppled, Azantys falling over yet again in a bout of dizziness. They stayed still for a minute or two, the dark-haired girl’s temple throbbing inwardly with a building headache as the room reoriented itself. Was it supposed to feel like the floor was swaying?

 

 _‘I’m on a ship,_ ’ she reminded herself. _‘Of course it is.’_

 

Giddily, she sat back up and checked the dusk-toned dragon over. ‘ _Are you okay?’_

 

 _‘Yes. That was… that was… can we do that again?’_ At her raised brow, he explained. ‘ _You and I were looking through the same eyes. It was amazing. I could feel everything you did and I think you were the one to look at the zorses’ hides? I didn’t look at it last time._ ’

 

 _‘Then we have some influence over each other’s bodies,_ ’ Lyarra noted. _‘If you are ever in mine, promise that you won’t eat anything raw?’_

 

 _‘Promise! And no shrimp in my body.’_ She chuckled. He hadn’t taken as well to shrimp as he had crab.

 

 _‘Azantys, do you remember how you pluck memories from my mind?’_ The dragon nodded, his body curling into a more comfortable position and making it evident that his eyes were no longer open for study. ‘ _Can you do that again for the zorses? But instead of taking the image, hold it inside my head?_ ’

 

It wasn’t something they had tried before, so Lyarra was a little astounded by how quickly her little warrior managed it. He gave off a well-founded sense of pride when the picture was plucked a second later, brought to the forefront of her mind until the dark-haired girl could close her eyes and view it in perfect clarity. The near-seamless blend of white into black and back again… the possibilities that this held were nigh astounding.

 

 _‘Does it take much effort to hold it there?’_ When she received a negated response, she requested it to be held on from there. Then Lyarra reached for a reed pen and a pumice stone. Looks like that spyglass wouldn’t be necessary after all.

x

 

Young Griffin, better not-known by his true name of Aegon Targaryen, smiled brightly at the pretty maid lining the food stall. She had the sun-kissed skin of the local Pentoshi but an accent more the lines of the Summer Island and her Mistress owned the best damned skewered aurochs in all of Pentos. A few manners every now and then and Griffin ended up with skewers laden end-to-end with choice cuts of meat and occasionally a kiss on the cheek as well. He personally preferred the former but sometimes one had to compromise one’s honor for the best skewered aurochs in Pentos. He wouldn’t have done it for the _second_ best though.

 

“You are such a glutton,” the orange-haired Duck chuckled, paying for his own lesser stick.

 

Griffin shrugged. He had suffered enough japes for his comely face as a child. Why not let it pay off now? “I am a growing boy.”

 

“Growing rounder day by day,” the knight snorted. “Do you even know her name?”

 

The young man did not. To be fair, he knew very few people’s names or even the locations of where they arrived most times. This was auroch-skewer street, to the left would be sweetbread street and two stalls next to that had fresh blood oranges every time they visited. Griffin rather wished they were in Qohor now. There was a melon juice stand there that would taste divine with these sticks.

 

“Sela,” Griffin guessed, after some brief thought. It was a common name amongst the smallfolk of Pentos, meaning ‘amber stone’ and it would fit her Mistress’ lofty attitude. Now there was a woman who wouldn’t give him a single discount, no matter how prettily he spoke. He tried to schedule his visits here in between her shifts.

 

“Lucky guess.” Duck shook his head. “Be careful how you play with these women’s affections, boy. The Gods have a way of righting such wrongs. If you continue than mark my words, you will lose your heart, swiftly and painfully, one day.”

 

The currently blue-haired boy ignored him, devouring his stick with ease, then turning soft violet eyes to the one still in Duck’s hand. “Duck…”

 

His sworn knight took one look at him and flatly replied, “No.”

 

Griffin wilted. How could Ser Rolly do this to him? He knew Griffin was allowed only one day a month to eat whatever he pleased, every other meal carefully crafted by the attentions of Septa Lemore and Maester Haldon. How could his most dutiful sword, devoting his life to his king as he ought, deny him even a single bite of this most glorious…

 

“I can read the plea in your eyes, boy, and it does nothing to me.” To prove his point, the burly man took a large bite out of auroch meat, chewing slowly and making exaggeratedly loud smacks of his lips. Griffin looked away with a pout. “Where shall you drag me to next then?”

 

He perked up. “A daily ice runner should walk by the following street in a few minutes. We shall buy pinchfire ices from him and after that, a stand…”

 

Duck listened to his ward’s ramble with a fond grin on his face. It was a rare pleasure to see Griffin act as a child of his own age should.

 

Any plans that had been made swiftly shattered when a high-pitched scream broke through the air. Not even pausing to take a breath, the hidden dragon swiftly drew his sword. He fell into the shadow of the older man, a position he had accustomed himself to until Jon deemed him skilled enough to take point, and chased after the sound. They turned to a road, shopkeepers all pressed back against their wares and people scrambling out of the way, as a tall, bald man tried to steal himself a merchant’s purse. Try being the keyword as another interfered before Griffin could.

 

With surprisingly flexibility, the black-hooded figure slipped under the man’s knife, his smaller height assisting in that task. Rather than stab the man as he himself would have done, the stranger used the hilt of his sword to move the robber’s arm out of the way, grabbing it with a gloved hand and twisting _hard._ With a sharp crack, the arm signalled itself broken. A second later, the man’s brain caught up and he howled in pain, dropping the knife. The short man then shoved him backwards against a stall and kicked him in the shins. The bald man went down shortly afterward.

 

It took less than twenty seconds and the stranger was left to stand victoriously over his vanquished foe. Less impressive was when his companion got close enough to pull him aside, dislodging his hood in the process, as he hurriedly checked over the stranger’s body for any possible injuries.

 

“Wow,” Griffin breathed quietly. Near silent, the stranger still turned to look at him. The awe was for a different reason now. _“Wow.”_

 

The stranger was a woman. No, a girl with an oval face framed by dark brown curls and dominated by light lavender eyes. Bow-shaped lips, a gently curved nose, sweetmilk skin and a sword in her hand. He had never seen her before- _he would have remembered a face like that_ \- but looking at her felt as if waking from a dream. He wanted very much, desperately so, to know her.

 

Griffin promptly turned and smacked Duck with the side of his blade. “This is your fault!”

 

“My fault?” The man repeated, baffled.

 

“You invited the Gods to right their wrongs, damn you!”

 

x

 

_I was going to write a scene starring Aegon the future King, all noble and tragic and serious, and then I remembered that he’s fifteen. So you get a little more realistic Aegon instead._


End file.
